HEARTS AND OTHER HEARTS
Stephen had brought a change of clothes, as he had a habit of beingducked once at least during the day; and since there was a halt in theproceedings and no need of his services for an hour or two, he foundRose and walked with her to a secluded spot where they could watch thelogs and not be seen by the people.
"You frightened everybody almost to death, jumping into the river,"chided Rose.
Stephen laughed. "They thought I was a fool to save a fool, I suppose."
"Perhaps not as bad as that, but it did seem reckless."
"I know; and the boy, no doubt, would be better off dead; but so shouldI be, if I could have let him die."
Rose regarded this strange point of view for a moment, and then silentlyacquiesced in it. She was constantly doing this, and she often felt thather mental horizon broadened in the act; but she could not be sure thatStephen grew any dearer to her because of his moral altitudes.
"Besides," Stephen argued, "I happened to be nearest to the river, andit was my job."
"How do you always happen to be nearest to the people in trouble, andwhy is it always your 'job'!"
"If there are any rewards for good conduct being distributed, I'm rightin line with my hand stretched out," Stephen replied, with meaning inhis voice.
Rose blushed under her flowery hat as he led the way to a bench under asycamore tree that overhung the water.
She had almost convinced herself that she was as much in love withStephen Waterman as it was in her nature to be with anybody. He washandsome in his big way, kind, generous, temperate, well educated, andwell-to-do. No fault could be found with his family, for his mother hadbeen a teacher, and his father, though a farmer, a college graduate.Stephen himself had had one year at Bowdoin, but had been recalled, asthe head of the house, when his father died. That was a severe blow; buthis mother's death, three years after, was a grief never to be quiteforgotten. Rose, too, was the child of a gently bred mother, and all herinstincts were refined. Yes; Stephen in himself satisfied her in all thelarger wants of her nature, but she had an unsatisfied hunger for theworld,--the world of Portland, where her cousins lived; or, betterstill, the world of Boston, of which she heard through Mrs. WealthyBrooks, whose nephew Claude often came to visit her in Edgewood. Life ona farm a mile and a half distant from post-office and stores; life inthe house with Rufus, who was rumored to be somewhat wild andunsteady,--this prospect seemed a trifle dull and uneventful to thetrivial part of her, though to the better part it was enough. The betterpart of her loved Stephen Waterman, dimly feeling the richness of hisnature, the tenderness of his affection, the strength of his character.Rose was not destitute either of imagination or sentiment. She did notrelish this constant weighing of Stephen in the balance: he was too goodto be weighed and considered. She longed to be carried out of herself ona wave of rapturous assent, but something seemed to hold her back,--someseed of discontent with the man's environment and circumstances, somegerm of longing for a gayer, brighter, more varied life. No amount ofself-searching or argument could change the situation. She always lovedStephen more or less: more when he was away from her, because she neverapproved his collars nor the set of his shirt bosom; and as henaturally wore these despised articles of apparel whenever he proposedto her, she was always lukewarm about marrying him and settling down onthe River Farm. Still, to-day she discovered in herself, with positivegratitude, a warmer feeling for him than she had experienced before. Hewore a new and becoming gray flannel shirt, with the soft turnovercollar that belonged to it, and a blue tie, the color of his kind eyes.She knew that he had shaved his beard at her request not long ago, andthat when she did not like the effect as much as she had hoped, he hadmeekly grown a mustache for her sake; it did seem as if a man couldhardly do more to please an exacting lady-love.
And she had admired him unreservedly when he pulled off his boots andjumped into the river to save Alcestis Crambry's life, without giving asingle thought to his own.
And was there ever, after all, such a noble, devoted, unselfish fellow,or a better brother? And would she not despise herself for rejecting himsimply because he was countrified, and because she longed to see theworld of the fashion-plates in the magazines?
"The logs are so like people!" she exclaimed, as they sat down. "I couldname nearly every one of them for somebody in the village. Look at MiteShapley, that dancing little one, slipping over the falls and skimmingalong the top of the water, keeping out of all the deep places, andnever once touching the rocks."
Stephen fell into her mood. "There's Squire Anderson coming downcrosswise and bumping everything in reach. You know he's always buyinglumber and logs without knowing what he is going to do with them. Theyjust lie and rot by the roadside. The boys always say that a toad-stoolis the old Squire's 'mark' on a log."
"And that stout, clumsy one is Short Dennett.--What are you doing,Stephen!"
"Only building a fence round this clump of harebells," Stephen replied."They've just got well rooted, and if the boys come skidding down thebank with their spiked shoes, the poor things will never hold up theirheads again. Now they're safe.--Oh, look, Rose! There come the ministerand his wife!"
A portly couple of peeled logs, exactly matched in size, cameponderously over the falls together, rose within a second of each other,joined again, and swept under the bridge side by side.
"And--oh! oh! Dr. and Mrs. Cram just after them! Isn't that funny?"laughed Rose, as a very long, slender pair of pines swam down, as closeto each other as if they had been glued in that position. Rose thought,as she watched them, who but Stephen would have cared what became of theclump of delicate harebells. How gentle such a man would be to a woman!How tender his touch would be if she were ill or in trouble!
Several single logs followed,--crooked ones, stolid ones, adventurousones, feeble swimmers, deep divers. Some of them tried to start a smalljam on their own account; others stranded themselves for good and all,as Rose and Stephen sat there side by side, with little Dan Cupid for aninvisible third on the bench.
"There never was anything so like people," Rose repeated, leaningforward excitedly. "And, upon my word, the minister and doctor couplesare still together. I wonder if they'll get as far as the falls atUnion? That would be an odd place to part, wouldn't it--Union?" Stephensaw his opportunity, and seized it.
"There's a reason, Rose, why two logs go down stream better than one,and get into less trouble. They make a wider path, create more forceand a better current. It's the same way with men and women. Oh, Rose,there isn't a man in the world that's loved you as long, or knows how tolove you any better than I do. You're just like a white birch sapling,and I'm a great, clumsy fir tree; but if you'll only trust yourself tome, Rose, I'll take you safely down river."
Stephen's big hand closed on Rose's little one she returned its pressuresoftly and gave him the kiss that with her, as with him, meant a promisefor all the years to come. The truth and passion in the man had brokenthe girl's bonds for the moment. Her vision was clearer, and, realizingthe treasures of love and fidelity that were being offered her, sheaccepted them, half unconscious that she was not returning them in kind.How is the belle of two villages to learn that she should "thank Heaven,fasting, for a good man's love"?
And Stephen? He went home in the dusk, not knowing whether his feet weretouching the solid earth or whether he was treading upon rainbows.
Rose's pink calico seemed to brush him as he walked in the path that waswide enough only for one. His solitude was peopled again when he fed thecattle, for Rose's face smiled at him from the haymow; and when hestrained the milk, Rose held the pans.
His nightly tasks over, he went out and took his favorite seat under theapple tree. All was still, save for the crickets' ceaseless chirp, thesoft thud of an August sweeting dropping in the grass, and theswish-swash of the water against his boat, tethered in the Willow Cove.
He remembered when he first saw Rose, for that must have been when hebegan to love her, though he was only fourteen
and quite unconsciousthat the first seed had been dropped in the rich soil of his boyishheart.
"ROSE, I'LL TAKE YOU SAFELY"]
He was seated on the kerosene barrel in the Edgewood post-office, whichwas also the general country store, where newspapers, letters, molasses,nails, salt codfish, hairpins, sugar, liver pills, canned goods, beans,and ginghams dwelt in genial proximity. When she entered, just a littlepink-and-white slip of a thing with a tin pail in her hand and asunbonnet falling off her wavy hair, Stephen suddenly stopped swinginghis feet. She gravely announced her wants, reading them from a bit ofpaper,--1 quart molasses, 1 package ginger, 1 lb. cheese, 2 pairs shoelaces, 1 card shirt buttons.
While the storekeeper drew off the molasses she exchanged shy looks withStephen, who, clean, well-dressed, and carefully mothered as he was,felt all at once uncouth and awkward, rather as if he were some clumsylout pitchforked into the presence of a fairy queen. He offered her thelittle bunch of bachelor's buttons he held in his hand, augury of thefuture, had he known it,--and she accepted them with a smile. Shedropped her memorandum; he picked it up, and she smiled again, doingstill more fatal damage than in the first instance. No words werespoken, but Rose, even at ten, had less need of them than most of hersex, for her dimples, aided by dancing eyes, length of lashes, and curveof lips, quite took the place of conversation. The dimples tempted,assented, denied, corroborated, deplored, protested, sympathized, whilethe intoxicated beholder cudgeled his brain for words or deeds whichshould provoke and evoke more and more dimples.
The storekeeper hung the molasses pail over Rose's right arm and tuckedthe packages under her left, and as he opened the mosquito netting doorto let her pass out she looked back at Stephen, perched on the kerosenebarrel. Just a little girl, a little glance, a little dimple, andStephen was never quite the same again. The years went on, and the boybecame man, yet no other image had ever troubled the deep, placid watersof his heart. Now, after many denials, the hopes and longings of hisnature had been answered, and Rose had promised to marry him. He wouldsacrifice his passion for logging and driving in the future, and becomea staid farmer and man of affairs, only giving himself a river holidaynow and then. How still and peaceful it was under the trees, and howglad his mother would be to think that the old farm would wake from itssleep, and a woman's light foot be heard in the sunny kitchen!
Heaven was full of silent stars, and there was a moonglade on the waterthat stretched almost from him to Rose. His heart embarked on thatgolden pathway and sailed on it to the farther shore. The river was freeof logs, and under the light of the moon it shone like a silver mirror.The soft wind among the fir branches breathed Rose's name; the river,rippling against the shore, sang, "Rose;" and as Stephen sat theredreaming of the future, his dreams, too, could have been voiced in oneword, and that word "Rose."
Rose o' the River Page 6
