The Idyl of Twin Fires

  Chapter XV

  A PAGAN THRUSH

  All that next June day I worked in my garden, in a dream, my handsperforming their tasks mechanically. I ran the wheel hoe between therows of newly planted raspberries and blackberries, to mulch the soil,without consciousness of the future fruit which was supposed to delightme.

  Avoiding Mike, who would have insisted on conversing had I worked nearhim, I next went down to the brook below the orchard, armed with arake, brush scythe, and axe, and located the spot on the stone wallwhich exactly faced my front door. I marked it with a stake, and thinnedout the ash-leaved maples which grew like a fringe between the walland the brook, so that the best ones could spread into more attractivetrees, and so that a semicircular space was also cleared which couldsurround the pool, as it were, and in which I could place a bench, upagainst the foliage, to face the door of the house. From the door youwould look over the pool to the bench. From the bench you would lookover the pool and up the slope through the orchard to the house entrance.After I had the bench site correctly located, I saw that the four flowerbeds which Miss Goodwin and I had made were at least four feet out ofcentre, and would all have to be moved. But that was too much of atask for my present mood. I left them as they were, and busied myselfwith rooting out undeniable weeds and carting off the slash and rubbish.

  My mind was not on the task. Over and over I was asking myself thequestion, "Do I love her? What permanence is there in a spring passion,amid gardens and thrush songs, for a girl who caresses the sympathiesby her naive delight in the novelty of country life? How much of myfeeling for her _is_ passion, and how much is sympathy, even pity?"

  Over and over I turned these questions, while my hands workedmechanically. And over and over, too, I will be honest and admit, theselfish incrustations of bachelor habits imposed their opposition to thethought of union. I had bought the farm to be my own lord and master;here I was to work, to create masterpieces of literature, to plangardens, to play golf, to smoke all over the house, to toil all night andsleep all day if I so desired, to wear soft shirts and never dressfor dinner, to maintain my own habits, my own individuality, undisturbed.What had been so pleasant, so tinglingly pleasant, for a day, aweek--the presence of the girl in the garden, in the house, therustle of her skirt, the sound of her fingers on the keys--would itbe always pleasant? What if one wished to escape from it, and therewere no escape? Passions pall; life, work, ambitions, the need ofsolitude for creation, the individual soul, go on.

  "All of which means," I thought, laying down my brush scythe and gazinginto the brook, "that I am not sure of myself. And if I am not sure ofmyself, do I really love her? And if I am not sure of that, I must wait."

  That resolution, the first definite thing my mind had laid hold on,came to me as the sun was sinking toward the west. I went to the house,changed my clothes, and hastened up the road to meet her, curiously eagerfor a man in doubt.

  She was coming out of the door as I crossed the bit of lawn, dressed notin the working clothes which she had worn on our gardening days, but allin white, with a lavender ribbon at her throat. She smiled at me brightlyand ran down the steps.

  "Go to New York--but see Twin Fires first," she laughed. "I'm allready for the tour."

  I had not quite expected so much lightness of heart from her, and I wasa little piqued, perhaps, as I answered, "You don't seem very sorrythat you are seeing it for the last time."

  She smiled into my face. "All pleasant things have to end," she said,"so why be glum about it?"

  "Do they have to end?" said I.

  "In my experience, always," she nodded.

  I was silent. My resolution, which I confess had wavered a little whenshe came through the doorway, was fixed again. Just the light banter inher tone had done it. We walked down the road, and went first aroundthe house to take a look at the lawn and rose trellis. The young grasswas already a frail green from the house to the roses, the flowers aroundthe white sundial pedestal, while not yet in bloom, showed a mass oflow foliage, the nasturtiums were already trying to cling, with theaid of strings, to the bird bath (which I had forgotten to fill), andthe rose trellis, coloured green by the painters before they departed,was even now hidden slightly at the base by the vines of the new roses.

  "There," said I, pointing to it, "is the child of your brain, youraqueduct of roses, which you refuse to see in blossom."

  "The child of my hands, too; don't forget that!" she laughed.

  "Of _our_ hands," I corrected.

  "The ghost of Rome in roses," she said, half to herself. "It will bevery lovely another year, when the vines have covered it."

  "And it will be then, I trust," said I, "rather less like 'the roseof beauty on the brow of chaos.' The lawn will look like a lawn by then,and possibly I shall have achieved a sundial plate."

  "Possibly you will," said she, with a suspicious twinkle. "Andpossibly you'll have remembered to fill your bird bath."

  She turned abruptly into the house and emerged with a pitcher of water,tiptoeing over the frail, new grass to the bath, which she filled to thebrim, pouring the remainder upon the vines at the base.

  "My last activity shall be for the birds," she smiled, as she came backwith the pitcher. As if in gratitude, a bird came winging out of theorchard behind her, and dipped his breast and bill in the water.

  "The darling!" I heard her exclaim, under her breath.

  We took the pitcher inside, and I saw her glance at the flowers in thevases. "I ought to get you some fresh ones," she said.

  "No," I answered. "Those shall stay a long while, in memory of thegood fairy. Now I will show you my house. You have never seen my houseabove the first story."

  "It isn't proper," she laughed. "I shouldn't be even here, in thesouth room."

  "But you have been here many times."

  Again she laughed. "Stupid! But Mrs. Pillig wasn't here then!"

  "Oh!" said I, a light dawning on my masculine stupidity, "I beginto realize the paradoxes of propriety. And now I see at last why Ishouldn't have asked you to pick the paint for the dining-room--when Idid."

  Her eyes narrowed, and she looked into my face with sudden gravity. "Iwonder if you do understand?" she answered. Slowly a half-wistful smilecrept into the corners of her mouth, and she shook her head. "No, youdon't; you don't at all."

  Then her old laugh came bubbling up. "I suspect Mrs. Pillig is more ofan authority on pies than propriety," she said in a cautious voice,"and, besides, I'm going away to-morrow, and, besides, I don't careanyway. Lead on."

  We went up the uncarpeted front stairs, into the square upper hall whichwas lighted by an east window over the front door. I showed her firstthe spare room on the northeast corner, which connected with the bath,and then the second front chamber opposite, which was not yet furnishedeven with a bed. Then we entered my chamber, where the western sun wasstreaming in. She stood in the door a second, looking about, and thenadvanced and surveyed the bed.

  "The bedclothes aren't tucked in right," she said.

  "I know it," I answered sadly. "I have to fix them myself every night.Mrs. Pillig is better on pies."

  The girl leaned over and remade my monastic white cot, giving the pillowa final pat to smooth it. Then she inspected the shingles and oldphotographs on the walls, turning from an undergraduate picture of me,in a group, to scan my face, and shaking her head.

  "What's the matter?" I asked. "Don't tell me I'm getting bald."

  "No, not bald," she answered, "but your eyes don't see visions asthey did then."

  I looked at her, startled a little. "What makes you say that?" I asked.

  "Forgive me," she replied quickly. "I meant nothing."

  "You meant what you said," I answered, moving close to her, "andit is true. It is true of all men, and all women, in a way--of allsave the chosen few who are the poets and seers. 'Shades of the prisonhouse begin to close'--you know that shadow, too, I guess. I haveno picture of you when you were younger. No--you are still the poet; yousee aqueducts
of roses. So you think I'm prosy now!"

  "I didn't say that," she answered, very low.

  "One vision I've seen," I went on, "one vision, lately. It was--itwas----"

  I broke abruptly off, remembering suddenly my resolve.

  "Come," said I, "and I'll show you Mrs. Pillig's quarters."

  She followed in silence, and peeped with me into the chambers in theell, smiling a little as she saw Peter's clothes scattered on the floorand bed. Then, still in silence, and with the golden light of afternoonstreaming across the slopes of my farm, we entered the pines by thewoodshed, and followed the new path along by the potato field and thepasture wall, pausing here and there to gather the first wild rose buds,and turning down through the cloister at the south.

  As we slipped into the corner of the tamarack swamp my heart was beatinghigh, my pulses racing with the recollection of all the tense moments inthat grove ahead, since first I met her there. I know not with whatfeelings she entered. It was plain now even to me that she was maskingthem in a mood of lightness. She danced ahead over the new plankwalk, and laughed back at me over her shoulder as she disappeared intothe pines. A second later I found her sitting on the stone I had placedby the pool.

  She looked up out of the corners of her eyes. "I should think this wouldbe a good place to wade," she said.

  "So it might," said I. "Do you want to try it?"

  "Do you want to run along to the turn by the road and wait?" The eyesstill mocked me.

  "No," said I.

  She shook her head sadly. "And I did so want to wade," she sighed.

  "Really?" I asked.

  "Really, yes. I won't have a chance again for--oh, never, maybe."

  "Then of course I'll go ahead." I stepped over the brook, out ofsight. A moment later I heard a soft splashing of the water, and a voicecalled, "I'm only six now. Oh, it's such fun--and so cold!"

  I made no reply. In fancy I could see her white feet in the water, herface tipped up in the shadows, her eyes large with delight. How sweetshe was, how desirable! I stood lost in a rosy reverie, when suddenlyI felt her beside me, and turned to meet her smile.

  "How you like the brook," I said.

  "How I love it!" she exclaimed. "Don't think me silly, but it reallysays secret things to me."

  "Such secrets as the stream told to Rossetti?" I asked.

  She looked away. "I said secret things," she answered.

  We moved on, around the bend by the road where the little picture offar hills came into view, and back into the dusk of the thickest pines.At the second crossing of the brook, I took her hand to steady her overthe slippery stones, and when we were across, the mood and memoriesof the place had their way with us, and our hands did not unclasp. Wewalked on so together to the spot where we first had met, and wherefirst the thrush had sounded for us his elfin clarion. There we stoppedand listened, but there was no sound save the whisper of the pines.

  "The pines sound like soft midnight surf on the shore," she whispered.

  "I want the thrush," I whispered back. "I want the thrush!"

  "Yes," she said, raising her eyes to mine, "oh, yes!"

  And then, as we waited, our eyes meeting, suddenly he sang, far offacross the tamaracks, one perfect call, and silence again. Her face was aglimmering radiance in the dusk. Her hand was warm in mine. Slowly myface sank toward hers, and our lips met--met for an instant when wewere not masters of ourselves, when the bird song and the whisperingpines wrought their pagan spell upon us.

  Another instant, and she stood away from me, one hand over her mouth, onehand on her panting breast, and fright in her eyes. Then, as suddenly,she laughed. It was hardly a nervous laugh. It welled up with thefamiliar gurgle from her throat.

  "John Upton," she said, "you are a bad man. That wasn't what thethrush said at all."

  "I misunderstood," said I, recovering more slowly, and astounded byher mood.

  "I'll not reproach you, since I, a philologist, misunderstood for asecond myself," she responded. "Hark!"

  There was a sudden sound of steps and crackling twigs in the grove behindus, and Buster emerged up the path, hot on our scent. He made a dabwith his tongue at my hand, and then fell upon Miss Goodwin. She sank toher knees and began to caress him, very quickly, so that I could not seeher face.

  "Stella," said I, "Buster has made a friend of you. That's alwaysa great compliment from a dog."

  She kept her face buried in his neck an instant longer, and then her eyeslifted to mine. "Yes--John," she said. "And now I must go home to packmy trunk."

  "Let me drive you to the station in the morning," said I, as we emergedfrom the grove, in this sudden strange, calm intimacy, when no word hadbeen spoken, and I, at least, was quite in the dark as to her feelings.

  She shook her head. "No, I go too early for you. You--you mustn't tryto see me."

  For just a second her voice wavered. She stopped for a last look at TwinFires. "Nice house, nice garden, nice brook," she said, and added,with a little smile, "nice rose trellis." Then we walked up the road,and at Bert's door she put out her hand.

  "Good-bye," she said.

  "Good-bye," I answered.

  Her eyes looked frankly into mine. There was nothing there but smilingfriendship. The fingers did not tremble in my grasp.

  "I shall write," said I, controlling my voice with difficulty, "andsend you pictures of the garden."

  "Yes, do."

  She was gone. I walked slowly back to my dwelling. I had kept myresolution. Yet how strangely I had kept it! What did it mean? Had Ibeen strong? No. Had she made me keep it? Who could say? All had beenso sudden--the kiss, her springing away, her abrupt, astonishinglaughter. But she had not reproached me, she had not been righteouslyangry, nor, still less, absurd. She had thought it, perhaps, but themood of the place and hour, and understood. That was fine, generous! Fewwomen, I thought, would be capable of it. Stella! How pleasant it hadbeen to say the name! Then the memory of her kiss came over me like awave, and my supper stood neglected, and all that evening I sat staringidly at my manuscripts and stroking Buster's head.

  Yes, I had kept my resolution--and felt like a fool, a happy, hopelessfool!