Ariel Custer (14 page)

Emily Dillon went straight to her lawyer’s office in the city.

“I want you to buy a house for me,” she said. “It’s a little bungalow in Glenside belonging to S. S. Packard, and his telephone number is 774W. I think you’ll find him there now. Could you call up and arrange about the purchase without his knowing who bought it?”

“Oh yes, Miss Dillon, that can be arranged. The firm can buy it, you know. Did you wish to pay cash for it?”

“Yes, I’d like you to use some of those last bonds you bought for me. It’s only a small bungalow, and the price is seventy-five hundred.”

“Very well, I’ll call him at once.”

He reached for the telephone.

“I’d like to get it all fixed up today,” she said nervously. “Could it be done as soon as that?”

“Why, if there are no complications. Possibly we could get the deed ready this afternoon. You will want the title searched, of course.”

“Whatever is necessary, of course, but I want the property anyway, and I want it fixed up as soon as possible. You see, there are some young people who want it very much, and they’ve had to give up the option on it because they couldn’t get the money to make a payment on it. This is their address. I’d like you to write them at once and say that your client who has purchased the bungalow understands that they have been interested in it and that it is for rent. Then find out what they are willing to pay and rent it to them
no matter how low the rent is.
You understand, I want them to have it no matter how little I get from it.”

“I understand, Miss Dillon,” said the lawyer, with a pleasant sparkle in his eyes. “I’ll try to carry out your wishes.”

“There’s another thing. Mr. Bonsall, I’d like to make a change in my will to include this purchase.”

“Certainly,” said the lawyer. “I’ll send for the will, and as soon as we have the details we can fix that up.” He touched a button and a boy appeared. “Bring the box containing Miss Dillon’s papers,” he said and went at once to the telephone.

In a few minutes more Emily Dillon was back in the city street again with the day before her. It was understood that she was to return about five o’clock to get the matter of the will fixed up. Harriet Granniss would think it very odd that she stayed away so long without explanation, but it couldn’t be helped, and she felt an intense satisfaction in the thought that she was prolonging her stay not from foolish desire of her own to play around in her favorite orphan asylums and hospitals but from a real sense of duty toward business matters. It gave her as it were a feeling that this day had just dropped down at her feet like a gift that she might do with as she pleased and not feel any compunctions of conscience. Emily Dillon’s conscience was well developed and always on the job.

She took a few steps out into the hot morning sunshine and paused, wondering what she should do first. She had a vague idea in the back of her mind of doing some frivolous shopping, buying something that Harriet would consider extravagant, something that perhaps she never would really feel like wearing in Glenside—and she rarely went elsewhere. She had no definite plan other than to satisfy a craving for something beautiful that had previously been without the pale of things that were really necessary. She cast her eyes up and down the street, hesitating between two of the big department stores for her first wild venture, when the label on an approaching trolley car caught her attention. That was the car that went to Copple’s Crossing! A sudden keen longing seized her to take it and spend the day in her childhood’s haunts.

It was a long time since she had been in Mercer, and longer still since she had been at the old farmhouse and wandered through the fields and woods down to the creek where she and Rebecca Ford used to play. Their talk of yesterday came back to her vividly about wading in the creek and how delightful it would be to go there again and just see the dear old spot! If she had only thought of it in time she would have taken Rebecca, and they could have had a happy day together far from Harriet’s prying eye. But it was too late to call her up, for she would by this time have gone to give the last cleaning to the schoolhouse, and besides, perhaps even Rebecca with all her understanding might think it foolish for a woman of her maturity to waste a whole day going to the woods. But there was nothing to hinder her going by herself, and no one would ever be the wiser.

She had plenty of time to go and return before five o’clock, and why should she not take this little bit of pleasuring?

With a quick little birdlike motion of determination, Emily turned and went a few steps down the block to a large fancy grocery where she purchased a couple of sandwiches, a small bag of chocolates, and two luscious Bartlett pears. Her heart beat rapidly as she did it, and her cheeks grew pretty and pink like a wild rose. She felt dreadfully selfish, somehow, but quite determined. She marched out joyously with her bits of packages and boarded the next car for Copple’s Crossing.

It was a long ride, haltingly through the lingering city and almost endless suburbs until the wide country was reached, but Emily Dillon enjoyed every instant of it, sitting serenely with a smile on her face like her little-girl self when she was allowed some unusual pleasure.

Visions of her sweet-faced mother and her faraway childhood began to come to her as she got away from the city. The wall that had been made by years of self-denial, disappointment, and pain seemed to melt away and be for the time forgotten, and her face was bright with the thoughts of happiness that might have been, some that had been, as if it were today. The smile on her face, and the dreamy look of visions in her eyes, caused more than one fellow passenger to look at her tenderly, she had so well kept her look of a little child in her mature face, that kingdom-of-heaven look.

At Copple’s Crossing there were two other passengers to get out, a man and a little boy. She was glad that she knew neither of them. She did not want to be watched nor interrupted. Someday, soon perhaps, she would go on to Mercer and look up some of her old friends. There was no real reason why she should not have done it sooner, only that Harriet would have wanted to go along, and she shrank from taking Harriet into the atmosphere of things she loved, because she generally managed to spoil everything with her cynicism. But today she wanted to have all to herself. One day out of a whole lifetime to talk alone with her own soul and see some things face-to-face, things that she had never dared admit to herself. Why should she not have it?

So she hurried on ahead with her little tripping walk and did not even look behind at the man and boy who plodded after her. At the turn of the road she slipped between the trees and was lost to sight when the two came around the curve. She did not even know that they stood in curious wonderment to see how she had disappeared, and talked of it several times, looking back and guessing who she was.

U
p she climbed by a road that was now overgrown with huckleberry and fern and laurel, and discernible as a trail only to the feet of memory. Rough branches reached out and caught at her trim little black toque, tore her veil, and snatched at her prim white shirtwaist, but she climbed breathlessly, buoyantly, like one who has just drunk of the spring of youth. Her face was flushed, her toque was jostled to one side, her veil was shredded and floating triumphantly, her neat black kid glove was split from wrist to finger where she had caught at a branch to steady herself, but she was happy, breathlessly happy, and once she laughed aloud as the underbrush caught her foot and almost threw her down. It seemed to her that she was just beginning to live.

She reached the crest of the hill, where the old chestnut trees still stood, although a blight had struck them and there were no mossy burrs littering the ground as in the old days. She paused to look up and remember Nate Barrett’s smiling face as it looked that day he climbed the tree to shake down more nuts for her. It was almost as if his spirit had come back, too, to wander with her in their old haunts, where they had not met since the day her angry father threw his gift of an orange in his face and ordered him from the porch. She had thought, then, that her life was ended, and for many long nights her pillow had been wet with bitter tears; but submission and patience had wrought their sweet work in her heart and taken the sting from her trouble. Nate Barrett knew it was not her fault. He had been young then, very young, with all his way to make in the world, and she scarcely more than a child, though even then keeping house for her father, who had never loved her enough to keep from drinking and disgracing her. There had never been any romance between them before the episode of the orange, only good friendship. But when her father threw that luscious orange straight into his face with a drunken force that sent its rich juice smashing through the golden rind, Nathan Barrett stood still, wiped the drops from his forehead, and looked the angry man straight in the face: “My father was just as good as you are, Jake Dillon, and my family have always been honorable and clean if they weren’t high and mighty. I can’t do anything about it now; but believe me, I’m going to show you that I’m good enough to associate with your daughter, if she
is
the finest of the fine, and
don’t you forget it
!” Then, turning to the distressed girl, he had said, “Emily, there’ll never be anybody like you in my life, and I guess you know that, though I’ve not said such a word to you before. I’m going away and I’m going to be somebody you won’t be ashamed of, and if you ever feel free, you have just to let me know, for I’ll always be waiting for you.”

Then he had turned on his heel and gone down the path to the gate, head up, shoulders square and determined, and gone out of her life. The years had come and gone, full of homely duties and monotony, full of angry complaining from her father, and sprees that grew longer and closer together, full of a steady attempt on her part to be a good daughter and fulfill the last request of her dying mother, “Take care of Father, Mother’s little girl. You know he needs it.” Her one comfort had been that Nathan knew of her promise whispered into the dying ear, and Nathan would not expect her to leave her post of duty. But
why
in all the years had Nathan never written? That question had troubled her for years, because she had felt sure that he would have found a way to communicate if he had tried. And yet, perhaps he would not feel it honorable after having been forbidden by her father to have anything to do with her. And of course in all that time he might have changed. He might have forgotten. Men were that way, people told her. She had no intimate knowledge of such things herself, save as she judged by her father. So the raw sorrow had burned itself into her soul and purified her until submission had come to smooth the pain away and bring the peace and the young look back into her eyes. As she grew older and saw the sorrows of some of her young companions, married to the young men of their choice but many of them cast aside after a few months or years like an old coat, or tortured by neglect, or actually sinned against, having to toil so hard and receiving nothing in return but hard words and cruel treatment, she came to think her lot was tolerable, even lovely in comparison. For had she not Nate’s word that she was all in all to him, that there would never be another in his life? True, he had been only a boy and he might have changed, but as she did not know it, why torment herself by thinking so? He had never written. His mother and he had dropped as it were out of the universe. Perhaps he was dead. That had been her thought. But still she had life, and love had been hers, a love that she might keep forever bright and clear in her heart. And so she had endured and made her desert blossom with loveliness because of that brief, sweet, hurried word he had said at parting.

The years had gone, and her father had lived most miraculously long, considering how he had imposed upon his physique. A strong, hard, wiry old man, making it hard for everybody with whom he came in contact, yet having his virtues, too, that would crop out in erratic ways like putting Harriet Granniss for life into his daughter’s home without consulting her. Perhaps he did it for love. Emily tried to think so and tried to forget his hardness now that he was gone.

Once she had thought that perhaps if Nathan was anywhere in her world he would hear of her father’s death and come to see her, but five long years had passed, and no word had been heard of Nathan, and now she had settled it in her mind that he was either dead, or had forgotten, or perhaps he thought it was too late.

Then, yesterday, out of a clear sky, had come Becky’s quiet gossip. Nathan was alive! He had been seen and talked with by residents of Glenside. He had succeeded; and he was still unmarried! He had set up a home by himself! Amazing facts! Ever since she had heard them and felt the clutch of her heart and the leap of the blood into her cheek, she had wanted to get away and think. Her quiet midnight chamber had not been quiet enough for her to dare to really take out the sacred past and search into the innermost recesses of her heart. Somehow the walls would cry out to Harriet and make her know if she thought about it at home. The very wallpaper would reveal to those prying eyes that her housemate had a secret, and presently Harriet would propound some bald and piercing question that would throw a horrible searchlight into her brain, and Harriet would just pick out what she wanted and crow over it and sneer about it, and Emily would be
done.
And so she had come to this quiet childhood haunt to take out her soul and look into her past.

She skirted the old farm, going across the high bridge. In the distance she could see Ephraim Sears, its present owner, and Silas Hawkins, the hired man, pitching hay on the hay wagon—probably the same old hay wagon where she had ridden and played as a child. Everything about the old farm was well cared for, well preserved. And yet—what nonsense! It was years and years. She was forty-two! Twelve from forty-two—she must have been twelve the last time she rode on the hay wagon. Thirty years! Could a wagon live so long? Its lines were archaic against the horizon. It might be. But—could
love
live so long? Yet it had lived in her heart. At least the idea of it had lived. She could see the strong, fine lines of the boyish figure now as he stood with one hand on the gate and told her there would never be anyone else in his life to take her place, and it still made her heart thrill to think of it! But he would have changed. He must have changed, as she had. He would be fat and gray-haired, and different, perhaps. Other men were. There was Dill Foster, slouchy and grouchy, nothing at all like the slim, elegant youth he used to be. There was Joe Freeman, fat and red and a fool with women, instead of the fresh-faced smiling boy she remembered. Undoubtedly Nate would have changed. She had changed herself. She was an old woman. Old! old! old! She tried to rub it into her consciousness, but in spite of her the wind blew the idea away, and the birds laughed at her in a joyous song. She wasn’t really thinking those thoughts at all, and she knew she wasn’t, as she tripped along over the bridge, the same old bridge over which she used to go to school when Nate, carrying her books, walked beside her. Nate’s spirit wouldn’t have changed—hers hadn’t. To herself, she was the same little girl in a blue gingham dress. It was her spirit that stayed young and still wore blue gingham. Her eyes would be able to see the young spirit of Nate, and he would see her that way. They had always been able to look into each other’s spirits. That was what had made it possible for her to live all these lonely years without him, doing her duty and just waiting.

The men in the hay field had stopped their work and were watching her. Si Hawkins was pointing to her, and Ephraim Sears had turned clear around and rested on his pitchfork handle. She hastened her steps and slipped into the woods. It was no part of her plan to be recognized.

Down near the old swimming hole she found the flat rock where they used to eat their picnic lunches so long ago, and here she spread her tiny feast. She ate with relish and leisure, recalling faces long since gone, and jokes that she had not thought of for years; and always one face and one voice that rose above them all.

After her meal was finished, she swung herself carefully down the steepness till she came to the little path close to the water. It was overgrown with tangled weeds and flowers, but still there must be children’s feet that now and then traveled that way, for there was a path distinct beneath the overgrowth. It was a bit hard traveling, and she found her knees trembling, but more perhaps from excitement than fatigue. She told herself with a smile that Harriet would have made a great fuss about her doing it and would have prophesied rheumatism and broken limbs and all sorts of evils to follow. But this was Emily’s day, and she meant to have everything belonging to it.

She wandered up a little way above the swimming hole where the water was shallower and where they used to wade and cross on stepping-stones. There she sat down again, dreamily watching the little stream babble by her, rippling around the stepping-stones that still lifted their heads above the water here and there. Perhaps not the very same stones but more stones like them, and here as she looked there came a small procession of little bare feet of other days, and little gathered-up gingham skirts, laughing faces, flying curls, merry shouts, boys’ voices gruff and deep; and one voice—always one voice above them all.

By and by, led by an unquenchable longing, she stooped with reddening cheeks, half ashamed of herself, unfastened her neat, laced boots, and took them off. The cool freeze on her slim, stockinged foot gave a little thrill of shock, but she persevered. With a timid glance around and up where a saucy robin eyed her from a lofty perch, she unfastened her immaculate white stockings and slipped them off, sliding the whiteness of her feet beneath the black serge skirt that was just a little too long for the modern fashion.

For several minutes she sat thus, huddled on the stone, her feet deliciously cool against the lushness of the wild grass and the velvet of the moss. Somehow now she had done it, her age and station rose about her to shame her, and she half thought she heard a stir amid the tall grasses and wild yellow daisies on the opposite bank. But the sweet air moved about her soothingly, a bee sang drowsily, a bird caroled joyously far up, and the place grew still—still and alone, so after a little while she gathered courage and arose. She ventured cautiously down to the brink, her black skirts lifted, her little white feet gleaming like a child’s, and stepped out, with many hesitations, upon the first stepping-stone, and stood, poised like a small blue heron, on one little foot with the other tucked up almost out of sight. Then she put the other down on the next stone, a lower one, and the water laughed and ran over it in soft ripples and little cool stings. She laughed aloud herself and took another step, this time a slippery one, and farther, and she drew her breath quickly and paused to get her balance. How mortifying if she should fall in and have to go home wet! And Harriet—But she would
never
go home that way. She would stay in the woods till she dried. Not even for the fear of pneumonia would she go home and face Harriet’s consternation and contempt. She could hear the sharp, keen voice like a knife now cutting through the air: “You! A woman of forty-five!” Harriet always anticipated one’s age by a few measures. “
You!
a grown-up woman! to go wading like a child! Emily Dillon, you must be simpleminded! I always said you needed a nurse! No wonder your father left it in his will that I was to take care of you!”

Just like that she would say it! Harriet always managed to get that will in somehow when she was angry with her. Emily’s cheeks burned hotly with indignation, and she steadied herself with resolution. She would not fall in and she would not
ever
let Harriet know that she had gone wading. That should be a sealed secret between herself and the woods as long as she lived. She was here today to have a happy time, and no Harriet should hinder.

So she went all the way across, slowly, joyously, remembering how Nathan Barrett had walked beside her the first time and held her hand till she was used to balancing alone on the slippery stones. It was as if he walked beside her now in all his young strength, and steadied her timid feet, and there was a light of wonder and delight in her eyes as she lifted them to the billowy clouds in the blue sky over the distant hay fields. Something was growing in her, an idea, vague and unformed, but so great and so breathless that she dared not entertain it till she was safe on dry land. Slowly, cautiously, she crept back again to her bit stone and dried her little white feet with her handkerchief; dried them quickly, surreptitiously, and slid them furtively into the stockings.

It was just as she started to put on one shoe that she heard a step somewhere, across on the other bank, and a rustle and crack of twigs. She stopped short, with her hands at her shoe, her breath held and that rigidness of form that a squirrel takes on a branch when someone approaches. An instant she held her breath and then turned her glance across the stream without even lifting her lashes. There was no sign of anyone. It might have been a heron, perhaps, or a chipmunk, yet it sounded like a step. In panic she hurried on her shoes and laced them with trembling fingers. Some time after, she heard another movement of the tall grass farther away toward the farm. She listened awhile and then stole away up higher into the deep of the woods out of sight on a mossy bank at the roots of great hemlocks that bent and dipped till their lacy branches reached the water and dimpled it now and then with a caress as it passed. Here she sat a long time watching the drifting lights and shadows as they sifted down around her through the lacy branches, lights reflected from the water or coming from the sun above, but soft and flickering and mysterious, like spirit-sunshine in a world of souls. And here, alone amid the green quiet of the woods with the little brook seeping, rippling happily below, a bee humming drowsily in the flowers across the bank, and the distant sound of scythes in the hay field over on the farm, she thought out her idea and made her real plan. Somehow here it seemed as though God was with her giving her courage to see things as they really were, with no silly barriers of her world that had held her in prison so long. She was thinking out a destiny, and she was not afraid to call her soul her own.