VI
THE MEETING IN THE TURNPIKE
On a late September afternoon Dan rode leisurely homeward along theturnpike. He had reached New York some days before, but instead of hurryingon with Champe, he had sent a careless apology to his expectantgrandparents while he waited over to look up a missing trunk.
"Oh, what difference does a day make?" he had urged in reply to Champe'sremonstrances, "and after going all the way to Paris, I can't afford tolose my clothes, you know. I'm not a Leander, my boy, and there's no Heroawaiting me. You can't expect a fellow to sacrifice the proprieties forhis grandmother."
"Well, I'm going, that's all," rejoined Champe, and Dan heartily responded,"God be with you," as he shook his hand.
Now, as he rode slowly up the turnpike on a hired horse, he was beginningto regret, with an impatient self-reproach, the three tiresome days he hadstolen from his grandfather's delight. It was characteristic of him at theage of twenty-one that he began to regret what appeared to be a pleasureonly after it had proved to be a disappointment. Had the New York days beengay instead of dull, it is probable that he would have ridden home with aneasy conscience and a lordly belief that there was something generous inthe spirit of his coming back at all.
A damp wind was blowing straight along the turnpike, and the autumn fields,brilliant with golden-rod and sumach, stretched under a sky which hadclouded over so suddenly that the last rays of sun were still shining uponthe mountains.
He had left Uplands a mile behind, throwing, as he passed, a wistful glancebetween the silver poplars. A pink dress had fluttered for an instantbeyond the Doric columns, and he had wondered idly if it meant Virginia,and if she were still the pretty little simpleton of six months ago. At thethought of her he threw back his head and whistled gayly into thethreatening sky, so gayly that a bluebird flying across the road hoveredround him in the air. The joy of living possessed him at the moment, a merephysical delight in the circulation of his blood, in the healthy beating ofhis pulses. Old things which he had half forgotten appealed to him suddenlywith all the force of fresh impressions. The beauty of the Septemberfields, the long curve in the white road where the tuft of cedars grew, thefalling valley which went down between the hills, stood out for him as ifbathed in a new and tender light. The youth in him was looking through hiseyes.
And the thought of Virginia went merrily with his mood. What a prettylittle simpleton she was, by George, and what a dull world this would bewere it not for the pretty simpletons in pink dresses! Why, in that caseone might as well sit in a library and read Horace and wear red flannel.One might as well--a drop of rain fell in his face and he lowered his head.When he did so he saw that Betty was coming along the turnpike, and thatshe wore a dress of blue dimity.
In a flash of light his first wonder was that he should ever have preferredpink to blue; his second that a girl in a dimity gown and a white chipbonnet should be fleeing from a storm along the turnpike. As he jumped fromhis horse he faced her a little anxiously.
"There's a hard shower coming, and you'll be wet," he said.
"And my bonnet!" cried Betty, breathlessly. She untied the blue strings andswung them over her arm. There was a flush in her cheeks, and as he drewnearer she fell back quickly.
"You--you came so suddenly," she stammered.
He laughed aloud. "Doesn't the Prince always come suddenly?" he asked. "Youare like the wandering princess in the fairy tale--all in blue upon alonely road; but this isn't just the place for loitering, you know. Come upbehind me and I'll carry you to shelter in Aunt Ailsey's cabin; it isn'tthe first time I've run away, with you, remember." He lifted her upon thehorse, and started at a gallop up the turnpike. "I'm afraid the steeddoesn't take the romantic view," he went on lightly. "There, get up,Barebones, the lady doesn't want to wet her bonnet. Lean against me, Betty,and I'll try to shelter you."
But the rain was in their faces, and Betty shut her eyes to keep out thehard bright drops. As she clung with both hands to his arm, her wet cheekwas hidden against his coat, and the blue ribbons on her breast were blownround them in the wind. It was as if one of her dreams had awakened fromsleep and come boldly out into the daylight; and because it was like adream she trembled and was half ashamed of its reality.
"Here we are!" he exclaimed, in a moment, as he turned the horse round theblasted tree into the little path amid the vegetables. "If you are soakedthrough, we might as well go on; but if you're half dry, build a fire andget warm." He put her down upon the square stone before the doorway, andslipping the reins over the branch of a young willow tree, followed herinto the cabin. "Why, you're hardly damp," he said, with his hand on herarm. "I got the worst of it."
He crossed over to the great open fireplace, and kneeling upon the hearthraked a hollow in the old ashes; then he kindled a blaze from a pile oflightwood knots, and stood up brushing his hands together. "Sit down andget warm," he said hospitably. "If I may take upon myself to do the dutiesof free Levi's castle, I should even invite you to make yourself at home."With a laugh he glanced about the bare little room,--at the uncoveredrafters, the rough log walls, and the empty cupboard with its swingingdoors. In one corner there was a pallet hidden by a ragged patchwork quilt,and facing it a small pine table upon which stood an ash-cake ready for theembers.
The laughter was still in his eyes when he looked at Betty. "Now where'sthe sense of going walking in the rain?" he demanded.
"I didn't," replied Betty, quickly. "It was clear when I started, and theclouds came up before I knew it. I had been across the fields to the woods,and I was coming home along the turnpike." She loosened her hair, andkneeling upon the smooth stones, dried it before the flames. As she shookthe curling ends a sparkling shower of rain drops was scattered over Dan.
"Well, I don't see much sense in that," he returned slowly, with his gazeupon her.
She laughed and held out her moist hands to the fire. "Well, there was morethan you see," she responded pleasantly, and added, while she smiled at himwith narrowed eyes, "dear me, you've grown so much older."
"And you've grown so much prettier," he retorted boldly.
A flush crossed her face, and her look grew a little wistful. "The rain hasbewitched you," she said.
"You may call me a fool if you like," he pursued, as if she had not spoken,"but I did not know until to-day that you had the most beautiful hair inthe world. Why, it is always sunshine about you." He put out his hand totouch a loose curl that hung upon her shoulder, then drew it quickly back."I don't suppose I might," he asked humbly.
Betty gathered up her hair with shaking hands, which gleamed white in thefirelight, and carelessly twisted it about her head.
"It is not nearly so pretty as Virginia's," she said in a low voice.
"Virginia's? Oh, nonsense!" he exclaimed, and walked rapidly up and downthe room.
Beyond the open door the rain fell heavily; he heard it beating softly onthe roof and dripping down upon the smooth square stone before thethreshold. A red maple leaf was washed in from the path and lay a wet bitof colour upon the floor. "I wonder where old man Levi is?" he saidsuddenly.
"In the rain, I'm afraid," Betty answered, "and he has rheumatism, too; hewas laid up for three months last winter."
She spoke quietly, but she was conscious of a quiver from head to foot, asif a strong wind had swept over her. Through the doorway she saw the youngwillow tree trembling in the storm and felt curiously akin to it.
Dan came slowly back to the hearth, and leaning against the crumblingmortar of the chimney, looked thoughtfully down upon her. "Do you know whatI thought of when I saw you with your hair down, Betty?"
She shook her head, smiling.
"I don't suppose I'd thought of it for years," he went on quickly; "butwhen you took your hair down, and looked up at me so small and white, itall came back to me as if it were yesterday. I remembered the night I firstcame along this road--God-forsaken little chap that I was--and saw youstanding out there in your nightgown--with your little cold bare feet
. Themoonlight was full upon you, and I thought you were a ghost. At first Iwanted to run away; but you spoke, and I stood still and listened. Iremember what it was, Betty.--'Mr. Devil, I'm going in,' you said. Did youtake me for the devil, I wonder?"
She smiled up at him, and he saw her kind eyes fill with tears. Thewavering smile only deepened the peculiar tenderness of her look.
"I had been sitting in the briers for an hour," he resumed, after a moment;"it was a day and night since I had eaten a bit of bread, and I had beendigging up sassafras roots with my bare fingers. I remember that I rootedat one for nearly an hour, and found that it was sumach, after all. Then Igot up and went on again, and there you were standing in the moonlight--"He broke off, hesitated an instant, and added with the gallant indiscretionof youth, "By George, that ought to have made a man of me!"
"And you are a man," said Betty.
"A man!" he appeared to snap his fingers at the thought. "I am aweather-vane, a leaf in the wind, a--an ass. I haven't known my own mindten minutes during the last two years, and the only thing I've ever gonehonestly about is my own pleasure. Oh, yes, I have the courage of myinclinations, I admit."
"But I don't understand--what does it mean?--I don't understand," falteredBetty, vaguely troubled by his mood.
"Mean? Why, it means that I've been ruined, and it's too late to mend me.I'm no better than a pampered poodle dog. It means that I've gotteneverything I wanted, until I begin to fancy there's nothing under heaven Ican't get." Then, in one of his quick changes of temper, his face clearedwith a burst of honest laughter.
She grew merry instantly, and as she smiled up at him, he saw her eyes likerays of hazel light between her lashes. "Has the black crow gone?" sheasked. "Do you know when I have a gray day Mammy calls it the black crowflying by. As long as his shadow is over you, there's always a gloom at thebrain, she says. Has he quite gone by?"
"Oh, he flew by quickly," he answered, laughing, "he didn't even stay toflap his wings." Then he became suddenly grave. "I wonder what kind of aman you'll fall in love with, Betty?" he said abruptly.
She drew back startled, and her eyes reminded him of those of a frightenedwild thing he had come upon in the spring woods one day. As she shrank fromhim in her dim blue dress, her hair fell from its coil and lay like a goldbar across her bosom, which fluttered softly with her quickened breath.
"I? Why, how can I tell?" she asked.
"He'll not be black and ugly, I dare say?"
She shook her head, regaining her composure.
"Oh, no, fair and beautiful," she answered.
"Ah, as unlike me as day from night?"
"As day from night," she echoed, and went on after a moment, her girlishvisions shining in her eyes:--
"He will be a man, at least," she said slowly, "a man with a faith to fightfor--to live for--to make him noble. He may be a beggar by the roadside,but he will be a beggar with dreams. He will be forever travelling to somegreat end--some clear purpose." The last words came so faintly that he bentnearer to hear. A deep flush swept to her forehead, and she turned from himto the fire. These were things that she had hidden even from Virginia.
But as he looked steadily down upon her, something of her own pure fervourwas in his face. Her vivid beauty rose like a flame to his eyes, and for asingle instant it seemed to him that he had never looked upon a woman untilto-day.
"So you would sit with him in the dust of the roadside?" he asked, smiling.
"But the dust is beautiful when the sun shines on it," answered the girl;"and on wet days we should go into the pine woods, and on fair ones rest inthe open meadows; and we should sing with the robins, and make friends withthe little foxes."
He laughed softly. "Ah, Betty, Betty, I know you now for a dreamer ofdreams. With all your pudding-mixing and your potato-planting you aremoon-mad like the rest of us."
She made a disdainful little gesture. "Why, I never planted a potato in mylife."
"Don't scoff, dear lady," he returned warningly; "too great literalness isthe sin of womankind, you know."
"But I don't care in the least for vegetable-growing," she persistedseriously.
The humour twinkled in his eyes. "Thriftless woman, would you prefer tobeg?"
"When the Major rode by," laughed Betty; "but when I heard you coming, I'dlie hidden among the briers, and I'd scatter signs for other gypsies thatread, 'Beware the Montjoy.'"
His face darkened and he frowned. "So it's the Montjoy you're afraid of,"he rejoined gloomily. "I'm not all Lightfoot, though I'm apt to forget it;the Montjoy blood is there, all the same, and it isn't good blood."
"Your blood is good," said Betty, warmly.
He laughed again and met her eyes with a look of whimsical tenderness."Make me your beggar, Betty," he prayed, smiling.
"You a beggar!" She shook a scornful head. "I can shut my eyes and see yourfortune, sir, and it doesn't lie upon the roadside. I see a well-fedcountry gentleman who rises late to breakfast and storms when the birds areoverdone, who drinks his two cups of coffee and eats syrup upon hiscakes--"
"O pleasant prophetess!" he threw in.
"I look and see him riding over the rich fields in the early morning,watching from horseback the planting and the growing and the ripening ofthe corn. He has a dozen servants to fetch the whip he drops, and a dozenothers to hold his bridle when he pleases to dismount; the dogs leap roundhim in the drive, and he brushes away the one that licks his face. I seehim grow stout and red-faced as he reads a dull Latin volume beside hisbottle of old port--there's your fortune, sir, the silver, if you please."She finished in a whining voice, and rose to drop a courtesy.
"On my word, you're a witch, Betty," he exclaimed, laughing, "a regularwitch on a broomstick."
"Does the likeness flatter you? Shall I touch it up a bit? Just a dash moreof red in the face?"
"Well, I reckon it's true as prophecy ever was," he said easily. "It isn'tlikely that I'll ever be a beggar, despite your kindly wishes for my soul'swelfare; and, on the whole, I think I'd rather not. When all's said anddone, I'd rather own my servants and my cultivated acres, and come downlate to hot cakes than sit in the dust by the roadside and eat sour grapes.It may not be so good for the soul, but it's vastly more comfortable; andI'm not sure that a fat soul in a lean body is the best of life, Betty."
"At least it doesn't give one gout," retorted Betty, mercilessly, adding asshe went to the door: "but the rain is holding up, and I must be going.I'll borrow your horse, if you please, Dan." She tied on her flattenedbonnet, and with her foot on the threshold, stood looking across the wetfields, where each spear of grass pieced a string of shining rain drops.Over the mountains the clouds tossed in broken masses, and loose streamersof vapour drifted down into the lower foldings of the hills. The cool smellof the moist road came to her on the wind.
Dan unfastened the reins from the young willow, and led the horse to thestone at the entrance. Then he threw his coat over the dampened saddle andlifted Betty upon it. "Pooh! I'm as tough as a pine knot." He scoffed ather protests. "There, sit steady; I'd better hold you on, I suppose."
Slipping the reins loosely over his arm, he laid his hand upon the bluefolds of her skirt. "If you feel yourself going, just catch my shoulder,"he added; "and now we're off."
They left the little path and went slowly down the turnpike, under thedripping trees. Across the fields a bird was singing after the storm, andthe notes were as fresh as the smell of the rain-washed earth. A fullersplendour seemed to have deepened suddenly upon the meadows, and thegolden-rod ran in streams of fire across the landscape.
"Everything looks so changed," said Betty, wistfully; "are you sure that weare still in the same world, Dan?"
"Sure?" he looked up at her gayly. "I'm sure of but one thing in this life,Betty, and that is that you should thank your stars you met me."
"I don't doubt that I should have gotten home somehow," responded Betty,ungratefully, "so don't flatter yourself that you have saved even mybonnet." From its blue-lined sh
adow she smiled brightly down upon him.
"Well, all the same, I dare to be grateful," he rejoined. "Even if youhaven't saved my hat,--and I can't honestly convince myself that youhave,--I thank my stars I met you, Betty." He threw back his head and sangsoftly to himself as they went on under the scudding clouds.