Chapter XIV
THE FIRST LEMON PIE
Miss Goodwin was not there. She had gone for a walk. Disappointed, Iwent back to my farm, and resolved to clean up the path through thepines, to surprise her. The grove was dripping wet, the brook high,and when I had stacked up the slash from as far as the tamarack swamp,I brought down some old planks from the house and made a walk with themover the wet corner. There was scarcely any slash in the open borderof pines along the south wall, so that I had time to smooth with arake the path on between the vegetables and the hayfield well backtoward the house, mow it out with a scythe across the little slope ofneglected grass just west of the house, where I was going some day toplant more orchard and place my chicken houses, and finally bring itdown sharp through the group of pines by the road just northwest of thewoodshed (evidently planted there for a windbreak), ending it up at thedriveway which led in to the vegetable garden, around the end of theshed. Then I put up my tools, and walked back proudly around thecircle. The path practically encompassed ten acres, so that it madequite a respectable stroll. First, it led west through the small groupof pines, then south along the wall by the potato field, where Iglimpsed the rows of sprouting plants, and beyond them the lone pine andthe acres of Bert's farm and the far hills up the valley. Then it led bythe hayfield wall, on the right a tangle of wild roses and other wallsideflowers and weeds, on the left the neat rows of my vegetables, with thepeas already brushed. At the end of the farm it turned east, betweentwo rows of pine trunks like a natural cloister, and finally enteredthe tamarack swamp, and then the hush and silence of the pine grove,where the brook ran along in its mossy bed and you might have beenmiles from any house. It emerged into the maples where Twin Fires wasvisible, spick and span with new white paint and green shutters,above its orchard. I was very proud of that path, of its length, itscharm, its variety, its spontaneous character. It seemed to me then,and it has never ceased to seem, better than any extended acres offormal garden planting, more truly representative of the naturallandscape of our country, and so in a truer sense a real garden.There are spots along that brook now where I have sown ferns and wildflowers from the deep woods, brought home, like the trilliums, in agrapevine basket, spots which for sheer exquisiteness of shadowedwater and shy bloom and delicate green beat any formal bed you everdreamed. I have even cleared out three trees to let the morning sun fallon a little pool by the brook, and into that place I have succeeded intransplanting a cardinal flower, which looks at its own reflectionin the still water below, across the pool from a blue vervain. Justone cardinal flower--that is all--under a shaft of sunlight in thewoods. But it is, I like to think, what Hiroshige would most enjoy.
However, I am running ahead of my story. Returning to the house, I wentup to my new chamber, where my striped Navajo blanket (a gift from a NewMexican undergraduate who had been in one of my courses and entertainedan inexplicable regard for me, possibly because I persuaded him thathe was not destined for a literary career) was spread on the floor,my old college bed was clean with fresh linen, and my college shingleshung on the walls, a pleasant reminder of those strange social ambitionswhich mean so much to youth. Through my west window streamed in thesunset. I peeled off my clothes and dove into my brand new and quite tooexpensive porcelain bath tub--a luxury Bert's house did not possess.Then I got into my good clothes and a starched collar, more for thenow novel sensation than anything else, ate my supper, and in the warmJune evening walked up the road.
Bert and his wife were in the front sitting-room. I could see thembeneath the hanging lamp. The girl was walking idly up and down beforethe house. Out of range of the open window I took her hand and gave it alittle pressure. "For the centrepiece," said I. "You sat opposite meat my first meal, bless you!"
"Did I?" she answered. "What are you talking about?" She smiled itoff, but I knew that she was pleased at my pleasure.
Then I led the way into the parlour. "Hear, ye; hear, ye; hear, ye!"I cried. "To-morrow night at seven a housewarming dinner-party willbe given at Twin Fires. The guests will be Mrs. Bert Temple, her lesserfraction, and Miss Stella Goodwin."
"Land o' Goshen!" said Mrs. Bert. "I ain't got no fit clothes."
Bert and I roared. "They're all alike," cried Bert to me. "You ain'tgot no fit clothes, neither, hev you, Miss Goodwin?"
"Of course not," she laughed. "But I expect to go."
"Well, I ain't got no swaller tail myself," said Bert. "But I expectto go. We'll jest leave the old lady ter home."
"Will you, now?" said she. "Do you s'pose I'd lose a chance to seehow Mrs. Pillig's feedin' our friend? Not much!"
"Seven o'clock, then!" I called, as I went back down the road, tolight my old student's lamp again at last, and labour in my own housein the quiet evening, the time of day the Lord appointed for mentaltoil. As I drew near, the form of Buster emerged from the shed, barkingsavagely, his bark changing to whimpers of joy as I spoke his name.He pleaded to come into the house with me, so I let him come, and allthe evening he lay on the rug beside my chair, while I worked. Now andthen I leaned to stroke his head, whereupon he would roll over on hisback, raise his four paws into the air, and present his white belly to bescratched. When I stopped, he would roll back with a grunt of profoundsatisfaction, bat one eye at me affectionately, and go to sleep again.
"Buster," said I, "hanged if I don't like you."
His great tail spanked the rug.
The house seemed oddly more companionable for his presence. Yes, I didlike him--I who had thought I hated dogs! I put him to bed at eleven,in the woodshed, and bade him good-night aloud.
The next day Mrs. Pillig was nervously busy with preparations for thefeast. The ice man came, and the butcher. I worked half the day at mymanuscripts, and half cleaning up the last of my orchard slash, mowingthe neglected grass with a scythe, and trimming the grass between thehouse and the road with a lawn mower. I also edged the path to thekitchen door. Every few moments I looked up the road toward Bert's,but no figure drew near with saucily tilted nose. There was onlyBuster, trotting hither and yon in every part of the landscape, and, athalf-past three, the chunky form of Peter coming home from the SlabCity school. I set Peter to work for an hour sawing wood.
"But I gotter study," he said.
"What?" said I.
"Spellin'," said Peter.
"All right," said I, "I'll ask you words while you saw."
He gave me his book which I held open on the lawnmower handle, and everytime the machine came to his end of the strip of lawn I asked him a newword. Then I'd mow back again, and he'd make another cut of applebough, and then we'd have a fresh word.
"This lends an extremely educational aspect to agricultural toil,Peter," said I.
"Yes, sir," said he.
Peter had his lesson learned and I had the lawn mowed by five o'clock.I devoted the next hour to my correspondence, and then went up to makemyself ready for the feast. For some reason I went into the spare roomat the front of the house, and glancing from the window saw Miss Stellastealing up through the orchard, her hands full of flowers. I watchedcautiously. She peeped into the east window, saw that the coast wasclear, and I heard the front door gently opened. I tiptoed to the headof the stairs, and listened. She was in the south room. Presently Iheard voices.
"Sh," she was cautioning, evidently to Mrs. Pillig. A second later Iheard Buster bark his "stranger-coming!" bark by the kitchen door. WhenI came downstairs, there were fresh flowers beneath the Hiroshiges, abowl of them on the piano, and a centrepiece in the dining-room. I smiled.
"That fairy's been here again," said Mrs. Pillig slyly. "Gave mequite a start."
Promptly at seven my guests arrived, and I ushered them with greatceremony into the south room, where Mrs. Bert gazed around with unfeigneddelight, and cried, "Well, land o' Goshen, to think this was them twoold stuffy rooms of Milt's, with nothin' in 'em but a bed and acracked pitcher! Hev you read all them books, young man?"
"Not quite all," I laughed, as I opened the chimney cup
board to theleft of my west fireplace.
"Lucky you read what you did before you began ter run a farm," saidBert.
I now brought forth from the cupboard a bottle of my choicest Bourbon andfour glasses. The ladies consented to the tiniest sip, but, "There'snothin' stingy about me!" said Bert. "Here's to yer, Mr. Upton, andto yer house!"
We set our glasses down just as Mrs. Pillig announced dinner. On the wayacross the hall I managed to touch the girl's hand once more. "For thesecond centrepiece, dear fairy," I whispered.
Bert was in rare form that evening, and kept us in gales of merriment.Mrs. Pillig brought the soup and meat with anxious gravity, set thecourses on the table, and then stopped to chat with Mrs. Temple, or tolisten to Bert's stories. She amused me almost as much as Bert did.Bert and his wife weren't company to her, and the impersonal attitudeof a servant was quite impossible for her. It was a family party with thewaitress included. Miss Goodwin and I exchanged glances of amusementacross the table.
Then came the lemon pie.
"Now there's a pie!" said Mrs. Pillig, setting it proudly before me.
I picked up my mother's old silver pie knife and carefully sank itdown through the two-inch mass of puffy brown meringue spangled withgolden drops, the under layer of lemon-yellow body, and finally theflaky, marvellously dry and tender bottom crust.
"Mrs. Pillig," said I, "pie is right!"
"Marthy," said Bert, smacking his lips over the first mouthful, "ifyou could make a pie like this, you'd be perfect."
"The creation of a pie like this," said I, "transcends theachievements of Praxiteles."
"If I could make a pie like this," said Miss Goodwin, "I should resignfrom the dictionary and open a bakeshop."
Mrs. Pillig stood in the doorway, her thin, worried face wreathed insmiles. Under her elbow I saw Peter peeping through, less curiousconcerning us, I fancied, than the fate of the pie.
"You lose, Peter," I called. "There ain't going to be no core."
At the sound of my voice Buster came squeezing into the room, and put hisforepaws in my lap. Then he went around the table greeting everybody,and ended by nestling his nose against Miss Goodwin's knee. I slid backmy chair, supremely content. Bert slid back his. I reached to the mantelfor a box of cigars and passed one to Bert, along with a candle, forI had no lamp in the dining-room as yet, nor any candles for the table.That was a little detail we had forgotten. Bert bit off the end, andpuffed contentedly.
"That's some seegar," he said. "Better'n I'm used ter. Speakin'o' seegars, though, reminds me o' old Jedge Perkins, when he wentto Williams College. They used ter what yer call haze in them days,an' the soph'mores, they come into the young Jedge's room to smokehim out, an' they give him a dollar an' told him to go buy pipes an'terbacker; so he went out an' come back with ninety-nine clay pipesan' a penny's worth o' terbacker, an' it pleased the soph'moresso they let him off. 'Least, that's what the Jedge said."
We rose and went back into the south room, followed by Buster. Bert waspuffing his cigar with deep delight, and sank into the depths of a Morrischair, stretching out his feet. "Say, Marthy, why don't we hev a chairlike this?" he said.
"'Cause you can't stay awake in a straight one," she replied.
Mrs. Bert wandered about the room inspecting my books and pictures likea curious child. Miss Stella and I watched them both for a moment,exchanging a happy smile that meant volumes.
"I'm so glad you invited them," she whispered.
"I'm so glad you are here, too, though," I whispered back. "I can'tthink of my housewarming now, without you."
She coloured rosily, and moved to the piano, where, by some rightinstinct, she began to play Stephen Foster.
"'Old Kentucky Home!' By jinks, Marthy, do yer hear thet? Rememberhow I courted you, with the Salem Cadet Band a-playin' thet tune out onthe bandstand, an' us in the shadder of a lilac bush?"
Martha Temple blushed like a girl. "Hush up, Bert," she laughed. Butshe went over and sat on the arm of the Morris chair beside him, and Isaw his big, brown, calloused hand steal about her waist. My own instinctwas to go to the piano, and I followed it, bending over the player andwhispering close to her ear:
"You've touched a chord in their hearts," I said, "that you couldn'thave reached with Bach or Mozart. Don't stop."
"The old dears," she whispered back. "I'll give them 'The Old Folksat Home.'"
She did, holding the last chord open till the sound died away in theheart of the piano, and the room was still. Then suddenly she slippedinto "The Camptown Races," and Bert, with a loud shout of delight,began to beat out the rhythm on Martha's ample hip, for his arm wasstill about her.
"By cricky," he cried. "I bet thet tune beats any o' thesenew-fangled turkey trots! Speakin' o' turkey trots, Marthy, you and meain't been to a dance in a year. We mus' go ter the next one."
"Do you like to dance?" asked Miss Goodwin, coming over to the settle.
"Wal, now, when I was young, I was some hand at the lancers," helaughed. "Used ter drive over ter Orville in a big sleigh full o' hay,an' hev a dance an' oyster stew to the hotel thar. Sarah Pillig wuzsome tripper in them days, too."
"Ah, ha!" said I, "now I see why Mrs. Temple was so anxious to cometo-night!"
"Stuff!" said that amiable woman.
The girl was looking into the ashes on the hearth. "Sleigh rides!" shesaid. "I suppose you all go jingling about the lovely country in sleighsall winter! Do you know, I never had a sleigh ride in my life?"
"No!" cried Bert. "Don't seem possible. Speakin' o' sleighs, did Iever tell you about old Deacon Temple, my great uncle? He used ter heva story he sprung on anybody who'd listen. Cricky, how he did welcomea stranger ter town! 'Cordin' ter this story, he wuz once drivin'along on a fine crust, when his old hoss run away, an' run, an' run,an' finally upset the sleigh over a wall into a hayfield whar theywas mowin', an' he fell in a haycock an' didn't hurt himself atall. Then the stranger would say: 'But how could they be mowin' inMassachusetts in sleighin' time?' and the Deacon would answer: 'Theywa'n't. The old mare run so far she run into Rhode Island.'"
Mrs. Temple rose. "Bert, you come home," she said, "before you thinkof any more o' them old ones."
"Oh, jest the woodchuck," Bert pleaded.
Miss Stella and I insisted on the woodchuck, so Bert sank backluxuriously, and narrated the tale. It had happened, it seems, to hisgrandfather and this same brother, the Deacon, when they were boys."The old place wuz down by the river," said Bert, "an' there wasa pesky 'chuck they couldn't shoot ner trap, he wuz so smart, whohed a burrow near the bank. So one day grandad seen him go in, an'he called the Deacon, an' the two of 'em sot out ter drown the critter.They lugged water in pails, takin' turns watchin' and luggin', fortwo hours, dumpin' it into the hole till she was nigh full up. Thenthey got too tuckered ter tote any more, an' sat down behind a bush terrest. Pretty soon they seen the old woodchuck's head poke up. Helooked around, careful like, but didn't see the boys behind the bush,so he come all the way out and what do you think he done?"
"Tell us!" cried Miss Stella, leaning forward, her eyes twinkling.
"He went down ter the river an' took a drink," said Bert.
"Won't you copy the wisdom of the woodchuck?" I asked, when the laughhad subsided.
Bert nodded slyly and I opened my chimney cupboard again.
"It's agin all laws," said Bert, pointing a thumb toward his wife,"but it ain't every day we hev a noo neighbour in these parts. Here'sto yer, once more!"
The four of us walked up the road in merry mood, and the older folk leftthe girl and me on the porch. She held the door open, as if to go inafter them, but I pleaded that the lovely June night was young. "Andso are we," I added.
She looked at me a moment, through the dusk, and then came out on thestoop. We moved across the dewy lawn to a bench beneath the sycamorethat guarded the house, and sat down. Neither of us spoke for a longmoment. Then I said abruptly: "You've only come to my house wearing afairy cap of invisibility, since I moved in--till to-
night. Won't youcome to-morrow and walk through the pines? I've cleared all the slashout for you, and put planks in the swamp. The thrush won't sing for mealone."
"Yes, I'll come--for the last time," she said softly.
"Why for the last time?" I cried.
"Because I'm going back to the I's, or the J's, on the day after,"she answered.
"Oh, no, no, you mustn't!" I exclaimed. "You must stay here withthe jays. Why, you're not strong enough, and New York will be horriblyhot, and you haven't seen the phlox in bloom yet round the sundial,and you've got to tell me where to plant the perennials, when I sowthem, and--and--well, you just mustn't go."
She smiled wistfully. "Pronunciation is more important for me thanperennials, if not so pleasant," she said. "I shall think of TwinFires often, though, in--in the heat."
"They'll arrest you if you try to wade in Central Park," said I.
She laughed softly, lifting the corners of her eyes to mine.
"Anyhow," I maintained, "you are not well enough to go back. You arejust beginning to get strong again. It's folly, that's what it is!"
"Strong! Why, my hands are as calloused as yours," she laughed, "andabout as tanned."
"Let me feel," I demanded.
She hesitated a second, and then put out her hand. I took it in mine,and touched the palm. Then my fingers closed over it, and I held it insilence, while through the soft June night the music of far frogs cameto us, and the song of crickets in the grass. She did not attempt towithdraw it for a long moment. The night noises, the night odours in thewarm dark, wrapped us about, as we sat close together on the bench. Iturned my face to hers, and saw that she was softly weeping. Strangetears were very close to my own eyes. But I did not speak. The handslipped out of mine. She rose, and we moved to the door.
"The path to-morrow, at twilight," I whispered.
She nodded, not trusting to speech, and suddenly she was gone.
I walked down the road to Twin Fires in a dream, yet curiously aware ofthe rhythmic throb, the swell and diminuendo, of the crickets' elfinchime.