The Idyl of Twin Fires

  Chapter VI

  THE HERMIT SINGS AT TWILIGHT

  The next morning I demanded that Mrs. Temple again put me up some lunch."For," said I, "I'm going to postpone meeting this broken-down wreckof a perhaps once proud female as long as possible."

  "Maybe when you see her drive by you'll be sorry," Mrs. Bert smiled.

  "I shall be working on the south side of the house," I retorted.

  I had not been long at my place, indeed, I had scarcely finished wateringmy seed bed and carting out my daily stint of two barrow loads of slashfrom the orchard, when I heard the road scraper rattling over thebridge by the brook. Mike came from the vegetable garden and met his"frind Morrissy," to whom I was ceremoniously presented.

  The scraper was a large affair with flat-tired iron wheels and a bladeeight feet long. It was drawn by four horses, and Mr. Morrissy himselfwas driving, while a younger man manipulated the levers. We drove inbehind the woodshed to the proposed lawn, I explained what I wanteddone, and the scraper went to work, with me trotting anxiously alongside,quite useless but convinced that I was helping, like Marceline at theHippodrome. The way that eight-foot blade, with four horses haulingit, peeled off the old furrows and brought the top soil down from thehigh side to the low made my poor efforts with the scoop look punyenough. After a few trips it began to look as if my lawn could be fairlylevel after all. Where I had worked an hour to lower the ground sixinches, the scraper accomplished the same result in five minutes and onfour times as wide a strip. I soon saw, too, that Mike and Joe wereuseless in the garden, so long as "frind Morrissy" and his helperwere here on the lawn, so I set them to spreading the loose dirt atthe lower end, as fast as the scraper brought it down, taking a handmyself. The lawn was shaping up so fast that I began once more togrow expansive.

  "It really won't be square," thought I, "because my pergola will cutoff twelve feet of the length, and if I have flower beds by the roses,they'll cut off some more. I guess those roses ought to be 112 feet fromthe house."

  I threw down my shovel, went over to the row of stakes, and moved themsouth again, twenty-five feet, having added thirteen feet as I walked;then I called out to "frind Morrissy" to bring his scraper.

  "Sure," said Mike, "you'll get it right yet. But I was goin' to putme cauliflowers there."

  The scraper went at the new twenty-five foot strip, and in an hour that,too, was down eight inches at the west end and up as much at the east.The lawn still sloped, and though an afternoon with the scraper couldprobably have put it nearly level, and I was tempted to have it done,Mike pointed out that we were already getting perilously close to thesubsoil, and if we went deeper we'd get into tough sledding, and I'dend, besides, by getting a surface which wouldn't grow grass. So Itook his advice, paid "frind Morrissy"--for the town!--as the far-offnoon whistle at Slab City blew, and took my lunch down to the brookwhile the scraper rattled off down the road.

  The brook reminded me of the pool I was going to build, and the pool ofmy dream, and my dream of the new boarder, and then with the patness of a"well-made" play the boarder herself entered, as it were. That is, Iheard the buggy coming, and the voice of Bert. I lay down flat behindthe tall weeds and grasses, and remained hidden till the buggy had passed.

  "Confounded petticoats!" thought I. "Well, if she tries to advise me,I'll snub her so she won't try a second time!"

  Then I finished my lunch, and lay for a quarter of an hour lazilyregarding the sky, a great blue sky with cloud ships floating at anchorin its depths, while the indescribable fragrance of May in moist placesfilled my nostrils and a song sparrow practised in the alders. As I gotup to return to my work, I saw suddenly that the old apple trees in myorchard were showing pink--just a frail hint of it in the veil of younggreen. A great cumulus cloud piled up like a Himalayan peak in thewest beyond my mouse-gray dwelling. To the left, the new lawn was shinybrown, and as I climbed the slopes the smell of it came to me. Outstill farther to the left my land was already staked in rows of packedearth, neatly. The scene was beautiful to my eyes, and the imaginedbeauty of to-morrow made me almost run through the orchard to leavemy lunch basket in the kitchen and get my tools for the afternoon's work.

  I had, unfortunately, no roller, but I found in the shed an old piece oftattered carpet, which I tacked on a ten-foot beam, tied a rope to eachend, united the two ropes around a stick for a handle, and draggedthis improvised smoother back and forth over my lawn, as I had seenthe keepers of the dirt tennis courts at college do. It was reallysurprising how well this smoothed the surface, especially at thelower end where the dirt was loose. It had much less effect on theground where the scraper had taken off the top soil. After the lawnlooked tolerably level to the eye, I brought three loads of manurefrom the barn, scattered them lightly, and went over the surface with alight tooth harrow. I saw I was not going to get the lawn done thatafternoon, for it would have to be "rolled" again. I further realized,as the horse sank into the loose soil at the lower side, that I shouldhave to wait till a rain had settled the earth before I resmoothed it,and could sow my grass seed. At five o'clock, as Joe was leaving thegarden, and Mike had gone to the barn to milk the cows, I, too, put upmy tools, resolved to enjoy an hour's loaf--my first since I boughtthe farm!

  I scrubbed my hands and face at the kitchen sink in a tin basin whichrecalled my childhood, took a long draught from the tin dipper, filled mypipe, and strolled down through the budding orchard toward the brook. Thesong sparrow was still singing. The cloud ships were still riding atanchor. Even with my pipe in my mouth I could smell the odour of moistplaces in May. Walking beside the brook, I suddenly found the greenspears of an iris plant amid the grasses. A few steps farther on, underthe maples, the ground was blue and white with violets and anemones.Then the brook entered the pines, lisping a secret as it went, and Ifollowed it into their cool hush.

  I had gone scarcely six paces when I heard the crackle of footsteps ondead twigs somewhere ahead of me, and a moment later the vague form ofa woman was visible making her way amid the impeding dead branches.I stood still. She did not see me till she was close up. Then shegave a slight start and said, "I beg your pardon. I trust I am nottrespassing."

  I looked at her, while my pipe bowl was hot in my calloused hand. Shewas scarce more than a girl, I fancied, pale and unmistakably not of thiscountry world. I cannot say how she was dressed, save that she woreno hat and looked white and cool. But I saw that she had very blue eyeson each side of a decidedly tilted nose, and these eyes were unmistakablythe kind which twinkle.

  "Trespassing is a relative term," said I, after this, I fear, ratherrudely prolonged scrutiny.

  "You talk like 'Hill's Rhetoric,'" she smiled, with a quick glanceat the incongruity of my clothes.

  "Naturally," I replied. "It was the text-book I formerly used withmy classes."

  There was a little upward gurgle of laughter from the girl. "Clearness,force, and elegance, wasn't that the great triumvirate?" she said.

  "Something like that, I believe," said I. "I am trying to forget."

  "And are these pines yours to forget in? It should be easy. I waswalking out there in the road, and I spied the brook over the wall andclimbed through the briers to walk beside it, because it was trying sohard to talk to me. That was wrong of me, perhaps, but I never couldresist a brook--nor pine trees. They are such nice old men."

  "Why, then," I asked, "are the little virgin birches always runningaway from them?"

  Her eyes contracted a second, and then twinkled. "The birches _plague_them," she replied.

  "How do they plague them?" I demanded.

  "Pull their pine needles when they are asleep, of course," sheanswered. "Thank you for letting me walk here."

  "Not at all," said I, "it is always a pleasure to entertain a truenaturalist."

  She smiled, and made to pass on. I stood a little aside, in silence.And in that moment of silence suddenly, from near at hand, from somewherein these very pines, there rang out the golden throb of a hermit thrushso close that the
grace notes of his song were audible, cool and liquidand lovely. The suddenness, the nearness, the wildness of this songmade it indescribably thrilling, and the girl and I both stood rigid,breathless, peering into the gloom of the pines. Again the call rang out,but a little farther away this time, more plaintive, more fairylikewith distance. She took a step as if to follow, and instinctively Iput out my hand, grasping her arm to restrain her. So we stood andwaited, while from farther still, evidently from the tamaracks in thecorner of my lot, came the elfin clarion. The singer was a good one;his attack was flawless, and he scattered his triplets with Mozartianease and precision. Still we waited, in silence, but he did not singagain. Then in a kind of wonder the girl turned her face to mine, andin a kind of wonder I realized that I was still holding her arm. Sheappeared as unconscious of it as I, till I let my hand fall. Then shecoloured a little, smiled a little, and said, "What was it? I neverheard anything so beautiful."

  "A hermit thrush," I answered. "Thoreau once described his song as'cool bars of melody from the everlasting morning or evening.' I thinkthat expresses it as well as words can."

  "I have always wanted to hear a hermit," she said wistfully. "And, oh,it is lovelier than I dreamed! I am going now before I get too jealousof you for having one all your own."

  "Don't go!" I said impulsively. "The hermit has never sung for me.That song must have been in your honour."

  The moment when I stood holding her arm, the moment when she had turnedher wondering, eager face to mine, had been very pleasant. It was dusknow in the pines, and, looking westward, the low sun was making daggersof light between the trees. My ghost that I had brought up from thepump suddenly walked again, but walked in flesh and blood, with blueeyes and tilted nose. I was undeniably affected. My voice must havebetrayed it as I repeated, "Don't go!"

  "But I fear it is time for my supper," she said, with a little nervouslaugh. "The thrush has evidently gone for his."

  "Birds eat early," said I. "They have to, because they get up soearly, after that worm."

  Her laugh was once more an up-gushing gurgle. The tenseness was broken.I found myself walking by her side through the maples, and pointing outmy house.

  She clapped her hands ecstatically. "Oh," she cried, "they made thefront door out of a highboy! How jolly! Is it as nice inside?"

  "It's going to be nicer," said I. "Come and see."

  "I'll peep through the windows," she smiled.

  I led her to my new south door, proudly showing my new lawn and theterrace, and telling her where the roses were to be, and the sundial,and dilating on the work my own hands had done. With a silly, boyishenthusiasm, I even displayed the callouses and invited her to feel ofthem, which she did as one humours a child, while I thrilled quiteunchildishly at the touch of her finger tips. Then we peeped through theglass doors. The low sun was streaming in through the west window anddisclosed the old oak beam across the ceiling. Hard Cider had erected theframe of the bookcase and double settle, which would perfectly match themantels as soon as the molding was on. One side of the settle facedtoward one smoky old fireplace, the other toward the second.

  "Two fireplaces! What luxury!" she exclaimed.

  "You see," said I, "when I get tired of reading philosophy at theeast fireplace, I'll just come around the corner and read 'Alice inWonderland' at the west chimney nook."

  "Double fireplaces--twin fireplaces--twin fires! That's it, Twin Fires!That ought to be the name of your house."

  "You're right!" I cried, delighted. "I've never been able to thinkof a name. That's the inevitable one--that's Flaubert's one rightword. You must come to my christening party and break a bottle of wineon the hearth."

  She smiled wistfully, as she turned away from the window. "I must surelygo to supper," she said. "Good-bye, and thank you for your wonderfulconcert."

  We walked to the road, but to my surprise she did not turn toward thevillage but toward Bert's. A sudden light came.

  "Are you the broken-down boarder?" I cried.

  The gurgle welled up, and the blue eyes twinkled, but she made no reply.

  "Just for that," said I, "I won't carry back Mrs. Bert's basket."

  As we entered the Temple's yard, Mrs. Bert stood in the kitchen door.

  "Well, you two seem to have got acquainted," she remarked in amatter-of-fact tone. "Miss Goodwin, this is Mr. Upton I told youabout. Mr. Upton, this is Miss Goodwin I told you about."

  "Mrs. Temple," said I, "you are another. You didn't tell me."

  "Young man," she retorted, "where's my basket?"

  "I left it behind--on purpose," said I.

  "Then you'll hev ter come home to yer dinner to-morrow," she said.

  "Well, I'm willing," I answered.

  "I guess you be," said she.

  At supper she returned to the theme, which appeared to amuse herendlessly. "Miss Goodwin," she said, "I want ter warn you thet Mr.Upton's terrible afraid somebody's goin' ter advise him how terbuild his garden. He's a regular man."

  I replied quickly: "Your warning is too late," said I; "Miss Goodwinhas already begun by naming my place."

  "You can change the name, you know," the girl smiled.

  "How can I?" I answered, with great sternness. "It's the right one."

  Whereupon I went up to my work, and listened to the sounds of softsinging in the room across the hall.