And her face reddens, and she does not speak. Their hands, on the wall, have met--they just touch, that is all, but they do not hasten apart. A long, long time they are silent--an eternity of a minute; and then she says, "We shall see in the morning."
And then another eternal minute rolls by, and the youth slips the rose from her hair--quickly, and without disarranging a strand.
"Oh," she cries, "Neal!" and then adds, "Let me get you a pretty one--that is faded."
But no, he will have that one, and she stands beside him and pins it on his coat--stands close beside him, and where her elbows and her arms touch him he is thrilled with delight. In the shadow of the great porch they stand a moment, and her hand goes out to his.
"Well, Jeanette," he says, and still her hand does not shrink away, "well, Jeanette--it will be lonesome when you go."
"Will it?" she asks.
"Yes--but I--I have been so happy to-night."
He presses her hand a little closer, and as she says, "I"m so glad,"
he says, "Good-by," and moves down the broad stone steps. She stands watching him, and at the bottom he stops and again says:--
"Well--good-by--Jeanette--I must go--I suppose." And she does not move, so again he says, "Good-by."
"Youth," said Colonel Martin Culpepper to the a.s.sembled company in the ballroom of the Barclay home as the clock struck twelve and brought in the twentieth century; "Youth," he repeated, as he tugged at the bottom of Buchanan Culpepper"s white silk vest, to be sure that it met his own black trousers, and waved his free hand grandly aloft; "Youth," he reiterated, as he looked over the gay young company at the foot of the hall, while the fiddlers paused with their bows in the air, and the din of the New Year"s clang was rising in the town; "Youth,--of all the things in G.o.d"s good green earth,--Youth is the most beautiful." Then he signalled with some dignity to the leader of the orchestra, and the music began.
It was a memorable New Year"s party that Jeanette Barclay gave at the dawn of this century. The Barclay private car had brought a dozen girls down from the state university for the Christmas holidays, and then had made a recruiting trip as far east as Cleveland and had brought back a score more of girls in their teens and early twenties--for an invitation from the Barclays, if not of much social consequence, had a power behind it that every father recognized. And what with threescore girls from the Ridge, and young men from half a dozen neighbouring states,--and young men are merely background in any social picture,--the ballroom was as pretty as a garden. It was her own idea,--with perhaps a shade of suggestion from her father,--that the old century should be danced out and the new one danced in with the pioneers of Garrison County set in quadrilles in the centre of the floor, while the young people whirled around them in the two-step then in vogue. So the Barclays asked a score or so of the old people in for dinner New Year"s Eve; and they kept below stairs until midnight. Then they filed into the ballroom, with its fair fresh faces, its shrill treble note of merriment,--these old men and women, gray and faded, looking back on the old century while the others looked into the new one. There came Mr. and Mrs. Watts McHurdie in the lead, Watts in his best brown suit, and Mrs. Watts in lavender to sustain her gray hair; General Ward, in his straight black frock coat and white tie, followed with Mrs. Dorman, relict of the late William Dorman, merchant, on his arm; behind him came the Brownwells, in evening clothes, and Robert Hendricks and his sister,--all gray-haired, but straight of figure and firm of foot; Colonel Culpepper followed with Mrs. Mary Barclay; the Lycurgus Masons were next in the file, and in their evening clothes they looked withered and old, and Lycurgus was not sure upon his feet; Jacob Dolan in his faded blue uniform marched in like a drum-major with the eldest Miss Ward; and the Carnines followed, and the Fernalds followed them; and then came Judge and Mrs. Bemis--he a gaunt, sinister, parchment-skinned man, with white hair and a gray mustache, and she a crumbling ruin in shiny satin bedecked in diamonds.
Down the length of the long room they walked, and executed an old-fashioned grand march, such as Watts could lead, while the orchestra played the tune that brought cheers from the company, and the little old man looked at the floor, while Mrs. McHurdie beamed and bowed and smiled. And then they took their partners to step off the quadrille--when behold, it transpired that in all the city orchestra, that had cost the Barclays a thousand dollars according to town tradition, not one man could be found who could call off a quadrille.
Then up spake John Barclay, and stood him on a chair, and there, when the colonel had signalled for the music to start, the voice of John Barclay rang out above the din, as it had not sounded before in nearly thirty years. Old memories came rushing back to him of the nights when he used to ride five and ten and twenty miles and play the cabinet organ to a fiddle"s lead, and call off until daybreak for two dollars. And such a quadrille as he gave them--four figures of it before he sent them to their seats. There were "cheat or swing," the "crow"s nest," "skip to my Loo,"--and they all broke out singing, while the young people clapped their hands, and finally by a series of promptings he quickly called the men into one line and the women into another, and then the music suddenly changed to the Virginia reel. And so the dance closed for the old people, and they vanished from the room, looking back at the youth and the happiness and warmth of the place with wistful but not eager eyes; and as Jacob Dolan, in his faded blues and grizzled hair and beard, disappeared into the dusk of the hallway, Jeanette Barclay, looking at her new ring, patted it and said to Neal Ward: "Well, dear, the nineteenth century is gone! Now let us dance and be happy in this one."
And so she danced the new year and the new century and the new life in, as happy as a girl of twenty can be. For was she not a Junior at the state university, if you please? Was she not the heir of all the ages, and a scandalous lot of millions besides, and what is infinitely more important to a girl"s happiness, was she not engaged, good and tight, and proud of it, to a youth making twelve dollars every week whether it rained or not? What more could an honest girl ask? And it was all settled, and so happily settled too, that when she had graduated with her cla.s.s at the university, and had spent a year in Europe--but that was a long way ahead, and Neal had to go to the City with father and learn the business first. But business and graduation and Europe were mere details--the important thing had happened. So when it was all over that night, and the girls had giggled themselves to bed, and the house was dark, Jeanette Barclay and her mother walked up the stairs to her room together. There they sat down, and Jeanette began--
"Neal said he told you about the ring?"
"Yes," answered her mother.
"But he did not show it to you--because he wanted me to be the first to see it."
"Neal"s a dear," replied her mother. "So that was why? I thought perhaps he was bashful."
"No, mother," answered the girl, "no--we"re both so proud of it." She kept her hand over the ring finger, as she spoke, "You know those "Short and Simple Annals" he"s been doing for the _Star_--well, he got his first check the day before Christmas, and he gave half of it to his father, and took the other twenty-five dollars and bought this ring. I think it is so pretty, and we are both real proud of it." And then she took her hand from the ring, and held her finger out for her mother"s eyes, and her mother kissed it. They were silent a moment; then the girl rose and stood with her hand on the doork.n.o.b and cried: "I think it is the prettiest ring in all the world, and I never want any other." Then she thought of mother, and flushed and ran away.
And we should not follow her. Rather let us climb Main Street and turn into Lincoln Avenue and enter the room where Martin Culpepper sits writing the Biography of Watts McHurdie. He is at work on his famous chapter, "Hymen"s Altar," and we may look over his great shoulder and see what he has written: "The soul caged in its prison house of the flesh looks forth," he writes, "and sees other chained souls, and hails them in pa.s.sing like distant ships. But soul only meets soul in some great pa.s.sion of giving, whether it be man to his fellow-man, to his G.o.d, or in the love of men and women; it matters not how the ecstasy comes, its root is in sacrifice, in giving, in forgetting self and merging through abnegation into the source of life in this universe for one sublime moment. For we may not come out of our prison houses save to inhale the air of heaven once or twice, and then go scourged back to our dungeons. Great souls are they who love the most, who breathe the deepest of heaven"s air, and give of themselves most freely."
CHAPTER XXIII
The next morning, before the guests were downstairs, Barclay, reading his morning papers before the fireplace, stopped his daughter, who was going through the living room on some morning errand.
"Jeanette," said the father, as he drew her to his chair arm, "let me see it."
She brought the setting around to the outside of her finger, and gave him her hand. He looked at it a moment, patted her hand, put the ring to his lips, and the two sat silent, choked with something of joy and something of sorrow that shone through their br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes. Thus Mary Barclay found them. They looked up abashed, and she bent over them and stroked her son"s hair as she said:--
"John, John, isn"t it fine that Jennie has escaped the curse of your millions?"
Barclay"s heart was melted. He could not answer, so he nodded an a.s.senting head. The mother stooped to kiss her son"s forehead, as she went on, "Not with all of your millions could you buy that simple little ring for Jennie, John." And the father pressed his lips to the ring, and his daughter snuggled tightly into his heart and the three mingled their joy together.
Two hours later Barclay and General Ward met on the bridge by the mill. It was one of those warm midwinter days, when nature seems to be listening for the coming of spring. A red bird was calling in the woods near by, and the soft south wind had spring in it as it blew across the veil of waters that hid the dam. John Barclay"s head was full of music, and he was lounging across the bridge from the mill on his way home to try his new pipe organ. He had spent four hours the day before at his organ bench, trying to teach his lame foot to keep up with his strong foot. So when General Ward overhauled him, Barclay was annoyed. He was not the man to have his purposes crossed, even when they were whims.
"I was just coming over to the mill to see you," said the general, as he halted in Barclay"s path.
"All right, General--all right; what can I do for you?"
The general was as blunt a man as John Barclay. If Barclay desired no beating around the bush, the general would go the heart of matters. So he said, "I want to talk about Neal with you."
Barclay knew that certain things must be said, and the two men sat in a stone seat in the bridge wall, with the sun upon them, to talk it out then and there. "Well, General, we like Neal--we like him thoroughly. And we are glad, Jane and I, and my mother too--she likes him; and I want to do something for him. That"s about all there is to say."
"Yes, but what, John Barclay--what?" exclaimed the general. "That"s what I want to know. What are you going to do for him? Make him a devil worshipper?"
"Well now, General, here--don"t be too fast," Barclay smiled and drawled. He put his hands on the warm rocks at his sides and flapped them like wing-tips as he went on: "Jeanette and Neal have their own lives to live. They"re sensible--unusually sensible. We didn"t steal Neal, any more than you stole Jeanette, General, and--"
"Oh, I understand that, John; that isn"t the point," broke in the general. "But now that you"ve got him, what are you going to do with him? Can"t you see, John, he"s my boy, and that I have a right to know?"
"Now, General, will you let me do a little of this talking?" asked Barclay, impatiently. "As I was saying, Jeanette and Neal are sensible, and money isn"t going to make fools of them. When the time comes and I"m gone, they"ll take the divine responsibility--"
"The divine tommyrot!" cried the general; "the divine fiddlesticks!
Why should they? What have they done that they should have that thrust upon them like a curse; in G.o.d"s name, John Barclay, why should my Neal have to have that blot upon his soul? Can"t they be free and independent?"
Barclay did not answer; he looked glumly at the floor, and kicked the cement with his heel. "What would you have them do with the money when they get it," he growled, "burn it?"
"Why not?" snapped the general.
"Oh--I just thought I"d ask," responded Barclay.
The two men sat in silence. Barclay regarded conversation with the general in that mood as arguing with a lunatic. Presently he rose, and stood before Ward and spoke rather harshly: "What I am going to do is this--? and nothing more. Neal tells me he understands shorthand: I know the boy is industrious, and I know that he is bright and quick and honest. That"s all he needs. I am going to take him into our company as a stockholder--with one share--a thousand-dollar share, to be explicit; I"m going to give that to him, and that"s all; then he"s to be my private secretary for three years at five thousand a year, so long as you must know, and then at the end of that time, if he and Jennie are so minded, they"re going to marry; and if he has any business sense--of course you know what will happen. She is all we have, General--some one"s got to take hold of things."
As Barclay spoke General Ward grew white--his face was aquiver as his trembling voice cried out: "Oh, G.o.d, John Barclay, and would you take my boy--my clean-hearted, fine-souled boy, whom I have taught to fear G.o.d, and callous his soul with your d.a.m.ned money-making? How would you like me to take your girl and blacken her heart and teach her the wiles of the outcasts? And yet you"re going to teach Neal to lie and steal and cheat and make his moral guide the penal code instead of his father"s faith. Shame on you, John Barclay--shame on you, and may G.o.d d.a.m.n you for this thing, John Barclay!" The old man trembled, but the sob that shook his frame had no tears in it. He looked Barclay in the eyes without a tremor for an angry moment, and then broke: "I am an old man, John; I can"t interfere with Neal and Jeanette; it"s their life, not mine, and some way G.o.d will work it out; but," he added, "I"ve still got my own heart to break over it--that"s mine--that"s mine."
He rose and faced the younger man a moment, and then walked quickly away. Barclay limped after him, and went home. There he sat on his bench and made the great organ scream and howl and bellow with rage for two hours.
When Neal Ward went to the City to live, he had a revelation of John Barclay as a man of moods. The Barclay Neal Ward saw was an electric motor rather than an engine. The power he had to perceive and to act seemed transmitted to him from the outside. At times he dictated letters of momentous importance to the young man, which Neal was sure were improvised. Barclay relied on his instincts and rarely changed a decision. He wore himself out every day, yet he returned to his work the next day without a sign of f.a.g. The young man found that Barclay had one curious vanity--he liked to seem composed. Hence the big smooth mahogany table before him, with the single paper tablet on it, and the rose--the one rose in the green vase in the centre of the table. Visitors always found him thus accoutred. But to see him limping about from room to room, giving orders in the great offices, dictating notes for the heads of the various departments, to see him in the room where the mail was received, worrying it like a pup, was to see another man revealed. He liked to have people from Sycamore Ridge call upon him, and the man who kept door in the outer office--a fine gray-haired person, who had the manners of a brigadier--knew so many people in Sycamore Ridge that Neal used to call him the City Directory. One day Molly Brownwell called. She was the only person who ever quelled the brigadier; but when a woman has been a social leader in a country town all of her life, she has a social poise that may not be impressed by a mere brigadier. Mrs. Brownwell realized that her call was unusual, but she refused to acknowledge it to him. Barclay seemed glad to see her, and as he was in one of his mellow moods he talked of old times, and drew from a desk near the wall, which he rarely opened, an envelope containing a tintype picture of Ellen.
Culpepper. He showed it to her sister, and they both sat silent for a time, and then the woman spoke.
"Well, John," she said, "that was a long time ago."
"Forty years, Molly--forty years."
When they came back to the world she said: "John, I am up here looking for a publisher. Father has written a Biography of Watts, and collected all of his poems and things in it, and we thought it might sell--Watts is so well known. But the publishers won"t take it. I want your advice about it."