“Yes, sometimes, when I think about father and mother and those who are gone; so many of our old neighbors.” Alexandra paused and looked up thoughtfully at the stars. “We can remember the graveyard when it was wild prairie, Carl, and now—”
“And now the old story has begun to write itself over there,” said Carl softly. “Isn’t it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years.”
“Oh, yes! The young people, they live so hard. And yet I sometimes envy them. There is my little neighbor, now; the people who bought your old place. I wouldn’t have sold it to any one else, but I was always fond of that girl. You must remember her, little Marie Tovesky, from Omaha, who used to visit here? When she was eighteen she ran away from the convent school and got married, crazy child! She came out here a bride, with her father and husband. He had nothing, and the old man was willing to buy them a place and set them up. Your farm took her fancy, and I was glad to have her so near me. I’ve never been sorry, either. I even try to get along with Frank on her account.”
“Is Frank her husband?”
“Yes. He’s one of these wild fellows. Most Bohemians are good-natured, but Frank thinks we don’t appreciate him here, I guess. He’s jealous about everything, his farm and his horses and his pretty wife. Everybody likes her, just the same as when she was little. Sometimes I go up to the Catholic church with Emil, and it’s funny to see Marie standing there laughing and shaking hands with people, looking so excited and gay, with Frank sulking behind her as if he could eat everybody alive. Frank’s not a bad neighbor, but to get on with him you’ve got to make a fuss over him and act as if you thought he was a very important person all the time, and different from other people. I find it hard to keep that up from one year’s end to another.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d be very successful at that kind of thing, Alexandra.” Carl seemed to find the idea amusing.
“Well,” said Alexandra firmly, “I do the best I can, on Marie’s account. She has it hard enough, anyway. She’s too young and pretty for this sort of life. We’re all ever so much older and slower. But she’s the kind that won’t be downed easily. She’ll work all day and go to a Bohemian wedding and dance all night, and drive the hay wagon for a cross man next morning. I could stay by a job, but I never had the go in me that she has, when I was going my best. I’ll have to take you over to see her to-morrow.”
Carl dropped the end of his cigar softly among the castor beans and sighed. “Yes, I suppose I must see the old place. I’m cowardly about things that remind me of myself. It took courage to come at all, Alexandra. I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t wanted to see you very, very much.”
Alexandra looked at him with her calm, deliberate eyes. “Why do you dread things like that, Carl?” she asked earnestly. “Why are you dissatisfied with yourself?”
Her visitor winced. “How direct you are, Alexandra! Just like you used to be. Do I give myself away so quickly? Well, you see, for one thing, there’s nothing to look forward to in my profession. Wood-engraving is the only thing I care about, and that had gone out before I began. Everything’s cheap metal work nowadays, touching up miserable photographs, forcing up poor drawings, and spoiling good ones. I’m absolutely sick of it all.” Carl frowned. “Alexandra, all the way out from New York I’ve been planning how I could deceive you and make you think me a very enviable fellow, and here I am telling you the truth the first night. I waste a lot of time pretending to people, and the joke of it is, I don’t think I ever deceive any one. There are too many of my kind; people know us on sight.”
Carl paused. Alexandra pushed her hair back from her brow with a puzzled, thoughtful gesture. “You see,” he went on calmly, “measured by your standards here, I’m a failure. I couldn’t buy even one of your cornfields. I’ve enjoyed a great many things, but I’ve got nothing to show for it all.”
“But you show for it yourself, Carl. I’d rather have had your freedom than my land.”
Carl shook his head mournfully. “Freedom so often means that one isn’t needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our landlady and the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or an easel, or a typewriter, or whatever tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to do is to pay our rent, the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for a few square feet of space near the heart of things. We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder.”
Alexandra was silent. She sat looking at the silver spot the moon made on the surface of the pond down in the pasture. He knew that she understood what he meant. At last she said slowly, “And yet I would rather have Emil grow up like that than like his two brothers. We pay a high rent, too, though we pay differently. We grow hard and heavy here. We don’t move lightly and easily as you do, and our minds get stiff. If the world were no wider than my cornfields, if there were not something beside this, I wouldn’t feel that it was much worth while to work. No, I would rather have Emil like you than like them. I felt that as soon as you came.”
“I wonder why you feel like that?” Carl mused.
“I don’t know. Perhaps I am like Carrie Jensen, the sister of one of my hired men. She had never been out of the cornfields, and a few years ago she got despondent and said life was just the same thing over and over, and she didn’t see the use of it. After she had tried to kill herself once or twice, her folks got worried and sent her over to Iowa to visit some relations. Ever since she’s come back she’s been perfectly cheerful, and she says she’s contented to live and work in a world that’s so big and interesting. She said that anything as big as the bridges over the Platte and the Missouri reconciled her. And it’s what goes on in the world that reconciles me.”
V
Alexandra did not find time to go to her neighbor’s the next day, nor the next. It was a busy season on the farm, with the corn-plowing going on, and even Emil was in the field with a team and cultivator. Carl went about over the farms with Alexandra in the morning, and in the afternoon and evening they found a great deal to talk about. Emil, for all his track practice, did not stand up under farmwork very well, and by night he was too tired to talk or even to practise on his cornet.
On Wednesday morning Carl got up before it was light, and stole downstairs and out of the kitchen door just as old Ivar was making his morning ablutions at the pump. Carl nodded to him and hurried up the draw, past the garden, and into the pasture where the milking cows used to be kept.
The dawn in the east looked like the light from some great fire that was burning under the edge of the world. The color was reflected in the globules of dew that sheathed the short gray pasture grass. Carl walked rapidly until he came to the crest of the second hill, where the Bergson pasture joined the one that had belonged to his father. There he sat down and waited for the sun to rise. It was just there that he and Alexandra used to do their milking together, he on his side of the fence, she on hers. He could remember exactly how she looked when she came over the close-cropped grass, her skirts pinned up, her head bare, a bright tin pail in either hand, and the milky light of the early morning all about her. Even as a boy he used to feel, when he saw her coming with her free step, her upright head and calm shoulders, that she looked as if she had walked straight out of the morning itself. Since then, when he had happened to see the sun come up in the country or on the water, he had often remembered the young Swedish girl and her milking pails.
Carl sat musing until the sun leaped ab
ove the prairie, and in the grass about him all the small creatures of day began to tune their tiny instruments. Birds and insects without number began to chirp, to twitter, to snap and whistle, to make all manner of fresh shrill noises. The pasture was flooded with light; every clump of ironweed and snow-on-the-mountain threw a long shadow, and the golden light seemed to be rippling through the curly grass like the tide racing in.
He crossed the fence into the pasture that was now the Shabatas’ and continued his walk toward the pond. He had not gone far, however, when he discovered that he was not the only person abroad. In the draw below, his gun in his hands, was Emil, advancing cautiously, with a young woman beside him. They were moving softly, keeping close together, and Carl knew that they expected to find ducks on the pond. At the moment when they came in sight of the bright spot of water, he heard a whirr of wings and the ducks shot up into the air. There was a sharp crack from the gun, and five of the birds fell to the ground. Emil and his companion laughed delightedly, and Emil ran to pick them up. When he came back, dangling the ducks by their feet, Marie held her apron and he dropped them into it. As she stood looking down at them, her face changed. She took up one of the birds, a rumpled ball of feathers with the blood dripping slowly from its mouth, and looked at the live color that still burned on its plumage.
As she let it fall, she cried in distress, “Oh, Emil, why did you?”
“I like that!” the boy exclaimed indignantly. “Why, Marie, you asked me to come yourself.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said tearfully, “but I didn’t think. I hate to see them when they are first shot. They were having such a good time, and we’ve spoiled it all for them.”
Emil gave a rather sore laugh. “I should say we had! I’m not going hunting with you any more. You’re as bad as Ivar. Here, let me take them.” He snatched the ducks out of her apron.
“Don’t be cross, Emil. Only—Ivar’s right about wild things. They’re too happy to kill. You can tell just how they felt when they flew up. They were scared, but they didn’t really think anything could hurt them. No, we won’t do that any more.”
“All right,” Emil assented. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad.” As he looked down into her tearful eyes, there was a curious, sharp young bitterness in his own.
Carl watched them as they moved slowly down the draw. They had not seen him at all. He had not overheard much of their dialogue, but he felt the import of it. It made him, somehow, unreasonably mournful to find two young things abroad in the pasture in the early morning. He decided that he needed his breakfast.
VI
At dinner that day Alexandra said she thought they must really manage to go over to the Shabatas’ that afternoon. “It’s not often I let three days go by without seeing Marie. She will think I have forsaken her, now that my old friend has come back.”
After the men had gone back to work, Alexandra put on a white dress and her sun-hat, and she and Carl set forth across the fields. “You see we have kept up the old path, Carl. It has been so nice for me to feel that there was a friend at the other end of it again.”
Carl smiled a little ruefully. “All the same, I hope it hasn’t been quite the same.”
Alexandra looked at him with surprise. “Why, no, of course not. Not the same. She could not very well take your place, if that’s what you mean. I’m friendly with all my neighbors, I hope. But Marie is really a companion, some one I can talk to quite frankly. You wouldn’t want me to be more lonely than I have been, would you?”
Carl laughed and pushed back the triangular lock of hair with the edge of his hat. “Of course I don’t. I ought to be thankful that this path hasn’t been worn by—well, by friends with more pressing errands than your little Bohemian is likely to have.” He paused to give Alexandra his hand as she stepped over the stile. “Are you the least bit disappointed in our coming together again?” he asked abruptly. “Is it the way you hoped it would be?”
Alexandra smiled at this. “Only better. When I’ve thought about your coming, I’ve sometimes been a little afraid of it. You have lived where things move so fast, and everything is slow here; the people slowest of all. Our lives are like the years, all made up of weather and crops and cows. How you hated cows!” She shook her head and laughed to herself.
“I didn’t when we milked together. I walked up to the pasture corners this morning. I wonder whether I shall ever be able to tell you all that I was thinking about up there. It’s a strange thing, Alexandra; I find it easy to be frank with you about everything under the sun except—yourself!”
“You are afraid of hurting my feelings, perhaps.” Alexandra looked at him thoughtfully.
“No, I’m afraid of giving you a shock. You’ve seen yourself for so long in the dull minds of the people about you, that if I were to tell you how you seem to me, it would startle you. But you must see that you astonish me. You must feel when people admire you.”
Alexandra blushed and laughed with some confusion. “I felt that you were pleased with me, if you mean that.”
“And you’ve felt when other people were pleased with you?” he insisted.
“Well, sometimes. The men in town, at the banks and the county offices, seem glad to see me. I think, myself, it is more pleasant to do business with people who are clean and healthy-looking,” she admitted blandly.
Carl gave a little chuckle as he opened the Shabatas’ gate for her. “Oh, do you?” he asked dryly.
There was no sign of life about the Shabatas’ house except a big yellow cat, sunning itself on the kitchen doorstep.
Alexandra took the path that led to the orchard. “She often sits there and sews. I didn’t telephone her we were coming, because I didn’t want her to go to work and bake cake and freeze ice-cream. She’ll always make a party if you give her the least excuse. Do you recognize the apple trees, Carl?”
Linstrum looked about him. “I wish I had a dollar for every bucket of water I’ve carried for those trees. Poor father, he was an easy man, but he was perfectly merciless when it came to watering the orchard.”
“That’s one thing I like about Germans; they make an orchard grow if they can’t make anything else. I’m so glad these trees belong to some one who takes comfort in them. When I rented this place, the tenants never kept the orchard up, and Emil and I used to come over and take care of it ourselves. It needs mowing now. There she is, down in the corner. Maria-a-a!” she called.
A recumbent figure started up from the grass and came running toward them through the flickering screen of light and shade.
“Look at her! Isn’t she like a little brown rabbit?” Alexandra laughed.
Maria ran up panting and threw her arms about Alexandra. “Oh, I had begun to think you were not coming at all, maybe. I knew you were so busy. Yes, Emil told me about Mr. Linstrum being here. Won’t you come up to the house?”
“Why not sit down there in your corner? Carl wants to see the orchard. He kept all these trees alive for years, watering them with his own back.”
Marie turned to Carl. “Then I’m thankful to you, Mr. Linstrum. We’d never have bought the place if it hadn’t been for this orchard, and then I wouldn’t have had Alexandra, either.” She gave Alexandra’s arm a little squeeze as she walked beside her. “How nice your dress smells, Alexandra; you put rosemary leaves in your chest, like I told you.”
She led them to the northwest corner of the orchard, sheltered on one side by a thick mulberry hedge and bordered on the other by a wheatfield, just beginning to yellow. In this corner the ground dipped a little, and the blue-grass, which the weeds had driven out in the upper part of the orchard, grew thick and luxuriant. Wild roses were flaming in the tufts of bunchgrass along the fence. Under a white mulberry tree there was an old wagon-seat. Beside it lay a book and a workbasket.
“You must have the seat, Alexandra. The grass would stain your dress,” the hostess insisted. She dropped down on the ground at Alexandra’s side and tucked her feet under her. Carl sat at a little di
stance from the two women, his back to the wheatfield, and watched them. Alexandra took off her shade-hat and threw it on the ground. Marie picked it up and played with the white ribbons, twisting them about her brown fingers as she talked. They made a pretty picture in the strong sunlight, the leafy pattern surrounding them like a net; the Swedish woman so white and gold, kindly and amused, but armored in calm, and the alert brown one, her full lips parted, points of yellow light dancing in her eyes as she laughed and chattered. Carl had never forgotten little Marie Tovesky’s eyes, and he was glad to have an opportunity to study them. The brown iris, he found, was curiously slashed with yellow, the color of sunflower honey, or of old amber. In each eye one of these streaks must have been larger than the others, for the effect was that of two dancing points of light, two little yellow bubbles, such as rise in a glass of champagne. Sometimes they seemed like the sparks from a forge. She seemed so easily excited, to kindle with a fierce little flame if one but breathed upon her. “What a waste,” Carl reflected. “She ought to be doing all that for a sweetheart. How awkwardly things come about!”
It was not very long before Marie sprang up out of the grass again. “Wait a moment. I want to show you something.” She ran away and disappeared behind the low-growing apple trees.
“What a charming creature,” Carl murmured. “I don’t wonder that her husband is jealous. But can’t she walk? does she always run?”
Alexandra nodded. “Always. I don’t see many people, but I don’t believe there are many like her, anywhere.”
Marie came back with a branch she had broken from an apricot tree, laden with pale yellow, pink-cheeked fruit. She dropped it beside Carl. “Did you plant those, too? They are such beautiful little trees.”