XXI
A VISIT FROM DOROTHEA
Dorothea settled herself more comfortably in her uncle's lap. "Youcertainly ought to be thankful you've never had it," she said. "It'sworse than being a leper. I've never been a leper, but when you'rethat you can go out, the Bible says so, and people just pass you byon the other side and let you alone. With diphtheria they don't letyou alone. Lepers are just outcasts, but diphtherias--what arepeople who have diphtheria?--well, whatever they are, they're cast inand nobody can see them except the nurses and the doctor and yourmother and father. The doctor said father mustn't come in my room,as he had to go to his business, and father told him to go to thedevil--I heard him. I just love the way father talks when he's mad.I couldn't have stood the long days if it hadn't been for you andfather coming in every evening. They certainly do a lot of thingswhen you're sick with contagiousness. Everything you eat out of anddrink out of has to be boiled and stewed, and the things you spit inburned up, and the walls washed, and more foolishness!" Dorothea'seyes rolled and her voice was emphatic. "I don't believe in a lot ofthings, Uncle Winthrop. I wasn't really sick, and just had a teensy,weensy bit of pain in my throat; and if I'd known what they weregoing to do to me I'd have been one of those Science Christians andkept it to myself."
"But suppose you had given it to Channing?" Dorothea's uncle settledDorothea more steadily on his lap. "The foolishness of wisdom is allsome see of it, but if Channing had taken diphtheria from you--"
"I don't believe there was any diphtheria for him to take. If I'dbeen a poor person it would have been plain sore throat, and I'd hadsome peace. Timkins says his little girl was a heap sicker than Iwas, and her mother nursed her all the time, and she got well longbefore I did. Are we very rich, Uncle Winthrop?"
"You are not billionaires. Your father has been fortunate and madesome money--"
"Is making money fortunate? Of course, I like nice things; but awhole lot of us children feel like"--Dorothea's arms waved as if tofree herself from unseen strappings--"feel like Chinese children.Our feet aren't really bound, sure enough, but we can't do like welike. Sometimes I just want to run as fast as a racehorse, andholler as loud as the poor children do in the park. I hateregulations and proper things. If father were to lose his money, doyou suppose we would have to have a special time for everything wedo? Go to bed, and get up, and eat, and say lessons, and studylessons, and take lessons, and go out, and come in, and lie down in adark room, and go again to drive or walk, and in between everythingyou do dress over again, and never, _never_ run or climb trees ortear your clothes and have just plain fun? I love dirt. I do! Ihave to be so careful with my finger nails and my clothes that ifever I have children I am going to let them get right down in thedirt and roll in it and make all the noise they want. Mother says aloud voice is so inelegant. So is affectatiousness, I think, and Iwasn't born with a soft voice. I just bawl at Channing sometimes. Ido it on purpose. I'm like father. I get tired of being elegant.Haven't you any kind of candy anywhere, Uncle Winthrop? Mother saidI could have a few pieces if it didn't have nuts in it."
Laine reached for a drawer in the book-piled table near which he sat."If I had known I was to have the honor of a visit from you thisafternoon I would have been better prepared for entertainment. I'mafraid this candy isn't very good. It's been here since your lastvisit, and--"
"That's been two months ago. We didn't get back from Florida untilFebruary, and in March I was taken sick, and then we went toLakewood, and now it's May. Mother can't understand how I got sick.She says she tries so hard to keep us from diseases and they comeanyhow. I wish I didn't have to be educated and find outthings--mother knows a lot; but it makes her so nervous. I'd ratherbe sick sometimes than afraid of being all the time. This certainlyis poor candy. I promised mother I wouldn't eat a thing Caddie gaveme if she'd let me come to see you; but I don't think she'd mind if Itook home some of those little cakes Caddie makes with almonds inthem. Do you suppose she has any?"
"I couldn't guess. I'll ring and find out."
"I'll ask her." Dorothea slipped from her uncle's lap. "I'll beback in a minute," and before Laine could press the button whichwould bring Moses she had disappeared. Five minutes later she wasback, in her hands a good-sized paper box, tied clumsily with redstring, and as she put it on the table she patted it withsatisfaction.
"That's for Channing," she said, half leaning against the table anddrumming on it with the tips of her fingers. "Caddie didn't have anycakes. She says you used to like sweet things, and it was once apleasure to cook for you; but if you enjoy anything you eat now younever confess it to her. She says you eat, but you don't know thename of what you're eating, and one thing is the same as another. Ithink her feelings are getting hurt, Uncle Winthrop."
"Are they? I'm sorry. Caddie is a spoiled creature. I long agoexhausted the English language in commendation of her efforts.Nothing is so wearing on one as continual demand for praise, andCaddie's capacity is exhaustless. I'm sorry she didn't have thelittle cakes."
"She's going to make some to-morrow and send them to me. It'spop-corn in this box." Dorothea held up the latter and shook it."Moses brought it from Virginia. They are the cunningest little earsyou've ever saw. Wasn't it nice of Moses to think about us and bringit? Of course, he didn't know we would be away so long and that Iwas going to be sick and he wouldn't see me until spring; but it's athing that keeps, and the drier it is the prettier it pops, he says.What is that picture over there, Uncle Winthrop? It is very ugly."
Laine glanced at the picture to which Dorothea pointed. "That is aJan Steen--'The Village Fair.' Sorry you don't like it. You thinkthat Botticelli is ugly also. A little later in life it may meetwith your approval. The original is priceless."
"A lot of priceless things aren't pretty. I don't ever expect to bea culturated person. Mother makes me go to all those old galleriesand museums, when we're in Europe, and look at a lot of crackedpictures and broken statues and carved things, and wants me to thinkthey're beautiful, but I don't. Some of them are hideous, and I getso tired of being told I must admire them that I make a face insideat most of them as I walk along, though, of course, outside, formother's sake, I don't make any signs. I'm a great disappointment tomother. We had a lady artist guide the last time we were in Italy.She used to get so mad with me that once she shook me. Father wouldhave killed her if she hadn't been a lady, and after that he and Iused to go out by ourselves and have the grandest times. He'd showme just a few pictures at the time, and tell me all about them, andsome of them I just loved. Mother says you have so many beautifulthings, Uncle Winthrop, and that it's a shame for a man to have themall by himself." She looked around the large room, and again tookher seat in her uncle's lap. "Some things I like in here, and some Idon't. You've got an awful lot of books, haven't you?"
"Too many, I'm afraid. Would you mind if I smoked?" Laine reachedfor a cigar from the box on the table and held it between his fingers.
"May I?"
"Of course. I hope I won't forget, though, and kiss you. I'm so aptto when I'm talking, if I like a person. Tobacco is so bitter. I'lltell you what I think is the matter with this room. It's--it's--"She looked around carefully. "It's something that isn't in it. Idon't know what it is. Why don't you get married, Uncle Winthrop?Maybe your wife would know."
Laine put the unlighted cigar back on the table, and Dorothea'shands, which were stroking one of his, were gripped by it and heldtightly.
"I do not doubt it. The trouble is in getting the wife."
Dorothea sat upright. "The idea! I heard Miss Robin French say theother day the way unmarried men were run after was outrageous, andall they had to do was to stand still and crow a little, and up wouldcome a-clucking all kinds of hens, little ones and big ones, andyoung ones and old ones, and-- Don't you tell anybody, but I thinkshe'd come, too!" Dorothea's hands came together, and she laughedgleefully. "Father says if Miss Robin would give up hoping she'd
behappier." Suddenly her face sobered. "Do all ladies try to marry aman, Uncle Winthrop?"
"They most certainly do not." Laine smiled in Dorothea's face, andbefore the child's clear eyes his own, full of weary pain, turnedaway. "Many of them take very long to make up their minds to marryat all."
"Have you ever asked one to marry you?"
Laine did not answer. Dorothea's question was unheard. His thoughtswere elsewhere.
"Have you?"
"Have I what?"
"Ever asked a lady to many you?"
"I have."
The hand which Dorothea had been stroking was dropped. She sprang toher feet and stood in front of him, her hands clasped in rigidexcitement on her breast.
"When"--her voice curled upward in quivering delight--"when is shegoing to do it, Uncle Winthrop?"
"I do not know. She has not said she would do it at all."
"Not said--she would--marry--you!" Delight had changed toindignation high and shrill, and Dorothea's eyes blazed brilliantly."Is she a crazy lady?"
"She is not."
"Then why?"
"She is not quite sure she-- It is not a thing to talk about,Dorothea." He drew her again on his lap and unclasped the clenchedfingers. "We are good friends, you and I, and I have told you what Ihave told no one else. So far as I am concerned, it does not matterwho knows, but until she decides we will not talk of this again. Youunderstand, don't you, Dorothea?"
"I understand she must have very little sense. I don't see how youcould want to marry a lady who didn't know right off, the very firstminute, that she wanted to marry you. Do--do I know her, UncleWinthrop?"
"You do."
For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of theclock on the mantel; and slowly Dorothea turned to her uncle, her bigbrown eyes troubled and uncertain. For half a moment she looked athim, then, without warning, threw her arms around his neck and hidher face against his.
"Is--is--it Claudia, Uncle Winthrop?" she whispered. "Is--it--mycousin Claudia?"
"It is--your cousin Claudia."
The quiver in Laine's voice was beyond control, and, lifting thechild's face, he kissed it. "I have asked her to marry me, Dorothea,but not yet has she promised to do so."
In Dorothea's cheeks two burning spots of red glowed brilliantly.Slipping down from her uncle's lap, she drew a long breath. "I knewshe must be queer about something," she said, and her fingersinterlocked in trembling excitement. "She was too nice not to be,but I didn't think she'd be this kind of queer. The idea of notpromising right away! I know what's the matter. It's her home andher mother, and all the things she is doing in the country that shedon't want to give up. Why don't you go down there and make her,Uncle Winthrop?"
"She asks me not to come--yet. There is no hotel, and--"
"Does she write to you?"
Laine smiled in the eager eyes. "Yes, she writes to me."
Again there was silence, and presently a queer sound from Dorothea."I can't help it, Uncle Winthrop! They're coming! Won't it begrand, because she will, I know she will, and I'm so glad Ican't--can't help--" And big, happy tears rolled down Dorothea'sface, which was pressed close to Laine's as he held her close to hisheart.
That night, when all the house was still and every one asleep,Dorothea slipped out of bed and, kneeling down beside it, folded herhands and began to pray.
"O Lord"--her voice was a high whisper--"please make my cousinClaudia come to her senses and promise my uncle Winthrop that shewill marry him right away. She lives in Virginia. Her post-officeis Brooke Bank, and she's an awfully nice person, but father sayseven You don't know why women do like they do sometimes, and ofcourse a man don't. Please make her love him so hard she'd just diewithout him, and make her write him to come quick. Give herplenteous sense from on high, and fill her with heavenly thankfulnessand make her my aunt for ever and ever. Amen."
She got up and scrambled into bed and closed her eyes tightly."French prayers aren't worth a cent when you want something and wantit quick," she said, half aloud. "And when you're in dead earnestyou have to get right down on your knees. I don't know what I'd doif I couldn't talk in plain English to the Lord. I hope He willanswer, for if He don't I certainly couldn't say right off, 'Thy willbe done.' I'd say I thought my cousin Claudia had mighty littlesense."
XXII
SPRINGTIME
Winthrop Laine lifted the tangled vines which overhung theshrub-bordered path leading down the sloping lawn at the back of thehouse to the rose-garden at its foot, and held them so that Claudiacould pass under.
"They ought to be cut." She stopped and unfastened a long tendril ofintertwined honeysuckle and bridal-wreath which had caught her hair."Everything ought to be cut and fixed, only--"
"It would be beyond pardon. If any one should attempt to change thisgarden, death should be the penalty. One rarely sees suchold-fashioned flowers as are here, never in modern places."
"No one knows when many of them were planted, and nothing hurtsthem." Stooping, Claudia picked from the ground a few violets andlilies-of-the-valley growing around the trunk of an immense elm-treeat the end of the path, then looked up.
"Don't let's go to the roses yet. I want to see what the sun-dialsays. This is the way my great-grandmother used to come to meet mygreat-grandfather when she was a girl. Her parents wanted her tomarry some one else. She would slip out of the house and down thispath to that big magnolia-tree, from where she could see and not beseen, and it was there they made their plans to run away."
"We will go there. It looks like a very nice place at which to makeplans."
Into Claudia's face color sprang quickly, and for a moment she drewback. "Oh no! It is too beautiful to-day to make plans of any kind.It is enough to just--live. You haven't seen half of Elmwood yet,and you want to talk of--other things."
"I certainly do." Laine stepped back that Claudia might lead the waydown the path, box-bordered so high that those within could not beseen outside, and smiled in the protesting face. A few moments moreand they had come out to the front lawn on the left of the house andsome distance below the terrace on which it overlooked the river, andas they reached a group of spreading magnolias he drew in his breath.
"I do not wonder that you love it. And I am asking you to leave it!"
She looked up. "Come, I want to show you some of the old things, thedear things, and then--"
"We will come back, and you will tell me what I must know, Claudia?"
She nodded and pulled the bells from the lily-of-the-valley she heldin her hands. "We will come back and--I will tell you."
For an hour, in the soft glow of the sun now, sinking in the heavens,they wandered through the grounds and separate gardens of the oldestate, now walking the length of the long avenue, shaded by greatelms of more than century age, now around the lawn with its beds ofbleeding-hearts and snowdrops, of wall-flowers and sweet-William, ofhyacinths and tulips, with their borders of violets and cowslips, ofcandytuft and verbenas, and at the old sun-dial they stopped and readthe hour. Picking an armful of lilacs and calicanthus and snowballsand blue flags, planted in the days when the great trees were tinysaplings, they sent them in by Gabriel, who was following at adistance, blowing softly on his trumpet, and for some minutes stoodin front of the house and watched the sun touch, here and there, theold brick laid in Flemish bond; then went back and sat down on thelow seat under the big magnolia, from which the river could beglimpsed, and over which every now and then a white sail could beseen.
Behind them the sun sank. The mass of shifting gold and blue andcrimson and pale purple lost little by little its brilliant splendor,and slowly over land and sky soft twilight fell, and only here andthere was heard the song and twitter of birds as they made ready forthe night.
For a few moments there was silence, and then in his Laine held thehands of Claudia.
"It is a wonder world, this old, old world of yours with its manythings we have forgotten. And yet--
you will come to me? You aresure at last, Claudia?"
"I am sure--at last." She raised her eyes to his. "I could not letyou come until I knew that--all the homes in all the world would notbe home without--"
"Without what, Claudia?"
"Without-- Why do you make me tell you when you know? You make metell too much."
"You cannot tell too much. Claudia! Claudia!"
Overhead the birds chirped sleepily and one by one the stars cameout. Presently Claudia drew herself away and smoothed her kissed andwind-blown hair. "I am such a queer person. I think you ought toknow," she said, and again her shining eyes were raised to his."There are a great many things I don't care for, and I don't thinkthe way some people do about a good many other things. I had to takelong to be sure."
"It was very cruel, Claudia." He lifted her face to his and smiledin the confessing eyes. "My forgiveness proves the measure of mylove. As proof of penitence, will you marry me in June?"
"I certainly--will--not!" Again she drew away. "Jacqueline will notget here until July. I told you she was coming home to live. Youdon't suppose I'd leave my mother before Jacqueline comes home?"
"Then when?"
"In October, perhaps." Slowly the color crept to her temples. "Itis so beautiful here in October. There isn't a month in all the yearit will not hurt to leave." Sudden tears were in her eyes. "But itwould hurt worse not to be--with--you. They were very long,Winthrop, the winter months that followed Christmas. You have verypoor manners. You should have written first and told me you hadenjoyed yourself instead of telling--"
"What I could no longer keep back? There was no time for manners. Ihad to know."
"But you didn't, and because I couldn't tell you. Before, I havealways been so quick to know. To go away--with just you! I had tobe so certain there was no other way of happiness." In the darknessshe shivered slightly, and Laine drew her into his arms and held herclose.
"Perhaps"--her voice was so low he had to bend his head to hearit--"perhaps it is because we are apart from the things that make oneforget that I have thought more about what it should mean--whatmarriage should mean--than I might have done had there been no timeto think. It is forever, Winthrop, this life that we are entering.Are we very, very sure there's love enough to last?"
"I am very sure, Claudia." He lifted her hands to his lips andkissed them. "For me your love will make of life a--"
"Land that is not lonely?" Under her breath she laughed, to hide thesob in her throat. "Oh, Winthrop Laine, it is what love is for! Andno one's land is lonely when there is love enough!"
The Man in Lonely Land Page 21
